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6* 







Marie Bashkirtseff 






MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF 

THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG ARTIST 
1860-1884. 



TRANSLATED B7 

MARY J. SERRANO 

AUTHOR OF "DESTINY AND OTHER POEMS " 
TRANSLATOR OF " PEPITA XIMENEZ," " THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST," 



New and Revised Edition 



ILLUSTRATED 




NEW YORK 

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 

681 Fifth Avenue 






Copyright 1919, by 
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 



All Right* Rtservtd 



Printed in the United States of America 



©CI.A515514 

MAY 1.4 1919 



TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 



Here is the record of an extraordinary life — 'a 
book without a parallel,' as Gladstone has called it. 
In these pages, science, art, literature, social questions, 
love, are treated with all the cynicism of a Machiavelli 
and the naivete of an ardent and enthusiastic girl. 
On a background solemn and somber as the steppes 
of her native land are traced pictures that reflect the 
vivid hues, the luminous atmosphere, the life, the 
movement, the variety, of France, Spain, Italy. With 
a nature that was profoundly religious, and a spirit 
that was essentially skeptical, with ambition to conquer 
the universe, and a heart that yearned with a pas- 
sionate longing for affection, demanding all things for 
herself, yet capable of the most utter self-abnegation, 
"hoping all things," and fearing all things alternately, 
clinging to life with an eagerness that is pathetic in 
its intensity, wishing for death with an eagerness no 
less pathetic, regarding herself by turns as the superior 
of kings, and as less than the least of created beings, 
Marie Bashkirtseff has left us as her contribution to 
the literature of humanity these confessions, which 
no one who has a mind to think or a heart to feel can 
read unmoved. 

M. J. S. 



PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION 



A generation has passed since this self-revelation 
of a unique individuality, recorded with absolute 
fidelity to truth, was first given to the world. A 
revelation which, in the words of a reviewer of the 
Journal, at the time of its first appearance in an 
English translation in America, "gives one the impres- 
sion of a soul accustomed to other and higher spheres, 
which, caught and imprisoned in a human body, is 
filled with curiosity to investigate its new surroundings, 
possessed of an explorer's interest in the bound of 
being and a philosopher's desire to subject to analysis 
all the tense passions and emotions of which it finds 
itself possessed." 

A genuine human document. The sincerest reveal- 
ment ever made to the world of the most intimate 
experiences of a human soul, of the most secret thoughts 
of a human heart. And pervading all the spirit of 
eternal Youth, the undying hope of Youth, the daunt- 
less courage of Youth. A great book indeed. An 
immortal book, which has within itself the assurance 
of its immortality, the immortality which only Genius 
can confer. A book without a parallel, indeed, as 
the great English statesman and scholar, Gladstone, 
has called it. 

So for the present generation, for the young, the 
ardent, the aspiring, who are entering life eager to 
achieve fame through the doing of great deeds, and 

vii 



viii PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION. 

for whom Romance throws a glamor over life that 
makes failure seem impossible, for these and for those 
graver spirits, those sympathetic students of the 
human heart and the human soul in whose lives the 
glamor of Romance still lingers, whose intellectual 
pleasure is still keen in tracing the windings of the 
path on which an eager and ardent soul is led by 
circumstance and for whom, above every other grace 
of mind, is the grace of sincerity, and above every other 
grace of soul, the grace of aspiration, this new transla- 
tion of the Journal of Marie Bashkirtseff — new in that 
it has been enlarged by important additions from the 
original French and a complete revision made of the 
text — is now issued. 



AUTHOR'S PREFACE 



Of what use were pretense or affectation? Yes, it is 
evident that I have the desire, if not the hope, of living 
upon this earth by any means in my power. If I 
do not die young I hope to live as a great artist; but 
if I die young, I intend to have my journal, which 
cannot fail to be interesting, published. Perhaps this 
idea of publication has already detracted from, if not 
destroyed, the chief merit that such a work may be 
said to possess? But, no! for in the first place I had 
written for a long time without any thought of being 
read, and then it is precisely because I hope to be 
read that I am altogether sincere. If this book is 
not the exact, the absolute, the strict, truth, it has no 
raison d'etre. Not only do I always write what I 
think, but I have not even dreamed, for a single 
instant, of disguising anything that was to my dis- 
advantage, or that might make me appear ridiculous. 
Besides, I think myself too admirable for censure. 
You may be very certain, then, charitable readers, 
that I exhibited myself in these pages just as I am. 
As a subject of interest for you I may appear to you 
of little consequence; but forget that it is 7; think 
simply that a fellow-being is recounting to you her 
impressions from her infancy. Such a document is 
very interesting from a human standpoint. Ask M. 
Zola if this be not so, or even M. de Goncourt, or 
Maupassant himself! My journal commences at my 
twelfth year, but begins to possess some value only 



X AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 

from after my fifteenth or sixteenth year. There is in 
it, therefore, a blank to be filled up; so that I shall 
write a sort of preface in order to render this monument 
of human and literary interest intelligible. 

Assume, then, that I am of noble birth, and let us 
begin: 

I was born on the nth of November, i860. Only 
to write it down is frightful. But then I console 
myself by thinking that I shall be of no age at all 
when you read my journal. 

My father was the son of General Paul Gregori- 
evitch Bashkirtseff, a provincial nobleman who was of 
a brave, obstinate, severe, and even ferocious nature. 
My grandfather was raised to the grade of General 
after the Crimean war, I think. He married a young 
girl — the adopted daughter of a grand seigneur; she 
died at the age of thirty-eight, leaving five children — 
my father and four daughters. 

Mamma was married at the age of twenty-one, 
after having rejected several very good partis. She 
was a Babanine. On the side of the Babanines we 
belong to an old noble family of the provinces; and 
grandpapa has always boasted of being of Tartar origin 
(his ancestors having come to Russia at the time of 
the first invasion). Baba Nina are two Tartar words 
— for my part I laugh at all this. Grandpapa was the 
contemporary of LermontofT, Poushkin, etc. He was 
an admirer of Byron, a poet, a soldier, and a man of 
letters. He married, while quite young, Mademoiselle 
Julie Cornelius, a girl of fifteen, very sweet and very 
pretty. They had nine children — if you will pardon 
the smallness of the number! 

After two years of marriage mamma went, with her 
two children, to live with her parents. I was always 
with grandmamma, who idolized me. Besides grand- 
mamma to adore me, there was my aunt, when mamma 
did not carry her off with her — my aunt, who was 



AUTHOR'S PREFACE. xi 

younger than mamma, but not so pretty; who sacri- 
ficed herself to and was sacrificed by everybody. 

In May, 1870, we set out to travel. The dream so 
long cherished by mamma was realized. We remained 
a month in Vienna, making ourselves dizzy with 
novelties of every description — fine shops, theaters, etc. 
We arrived at Baden-Baden in June, at the height of 
the season, and found ourselves in the midst of a luxury 
truly Parisian. Our party consisted of grandpapa, 
mamma, my aunt Romanoff, Dina (my cousin-german), 
my brother Paul, and myself; and we had with us 
a doctor, the angelic, the incomparable Walitsky. 
He was a Pole, but without any exaggerated patriot- 
ism, of a sweet nature, and very winning manners. 
He spent all his income on his profession. At Ach- 
tirka he was the physician of the district. He attended 
the University with mamma's brother, and was always 
treated as one of the family at our house. At the time 
of our setting out on our travels a physician was 
needed for grandpapa, and for that reason we took 
Walitsky with us. It was at Baden that I first be- 
came acquainted with the world, and with the refine- 
ments of polite society, and that I suffered the tor- 
tures of vanity. 

But I have not said enough about Russia, and 
about myself, which is the principal thing. I had 
two governesses, one a Russian, the other a French 
woman. The former, whom I remember very well, 
was a certain Madame Melnikoff, a woman of elegant 
manners, well educated, romantic, and who was sep- 
arated from her husband. She became a governess 
on a sudden impulse, after reading a great many 
romances. She was regarded by the family as a friend, 
and treated by them as an equal. All the men paid 
court to her, and one fine morning, after a certain 
romantic adventure, she disappeared. She might have 
bade us good-by and gone away quite naturally, but 



Xll AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 

the Slav nature, with French civilization grafted on 
it and influenced by romantic reading, is a curious 
compound. In her character of unhappy wife this 
lady had at once set herself to adore the little girl 
confided to her care. I had returned her adoration 
through an instinctive feeling of dramatic fitness, and 
my family, poseuse and simple-minded, thought her 
departure ought to make me ill; they all regarded 
me with compassionate looks that day, and I remem- 
ber that grandmamma ordered a certain soup — a 
soup for invalids — to be made expressly for me. I 
felt myself grow quite pale before this exhibition of 
sensibility. I was, indeed, sickly looking, fragile, and 
not at all pretty — all of which did not prevent every 
one's regarding me as a being destined to become one 
day beautiful, brilliant, and magnificent. Mamma once 
went to a Jew who told fortunes. 

"You have two children," he said to her; "your 
son will be like everybody else, but your daughter 
will be a star!" 

One evening at the theater a gentleman said to 
me, laughingly: 

"Show me your hand, mademoiselle. Ah, by the 
style in which you are gloved, there is not the slightest 
doubt but that you will one day be a terrible coquette." 

I was for a long time very proud of this. Since I 
have been able to think, since I was three years old, 
(I was not weaned until I was three and a half), I 
have always had aspirations toward greatness of some 
kind. My dolls were always kings or queens; all my 
thoughts, everything I heard from those who sur- 
rounded mamma, always bore some reference to this 
greatness which must one day inevitably come to me. 

When I was about five years old I dressed myself 
one day in mamma's lace, put flowers in my hair, 
and went to the drawing-room, to dance. I was the 
great danseuse Pepita, and all the household were there 



AUTHOR'S PREFACE. Xlll 

to look at me. Paul was nobody beside me, and Dina, 
although the daughter of the dearly beloved Georges, 
did not put me in the shade. One more incident: 
When Dina was born, grandmamma took her from 
her mother, and kept her from that time forth with 
herself. This was before I was born. 

After Mme. Melnikoff I had for a governess Mile. 
Sophie Dolgikoff, a girl of sixteen — blessed Russia! — 
and another, a Frenchwoman called Mme. Brenne, 
who wore her hair in the style of the Restoration, had 
pale blue eyes, and was a sorrowful looking creature, 
with her fifty years, and her consumption. I was 
very fond of her. She taught me how to draw. I 
drew a little church under her instructions. I drew 
at other times also. While the grown-up people played 
cards I would often draw on the green cloth. 

All this brings us back to Baden in 1870. War 
having been declared, we had betaken ourselves to 
Geneva, I with my heart filled with bitterness, and 
cherishing projects of revenge. Every evening on 
going to bed I recited in my own mind the following 
supplementary prayer: 

"My God, grant that I may never have the small- 
pox; that I may grow up pretty; that I may have a 
beautiful voice; that I may be happily married; and 
that mamma may live for a long time to come!" 

At Geneva we put up at the Hotel de la Couronne 
on the borders of the lake. There I had a professor 
of drawing who brought designs with him for me to 
copy — little chalets in which the windows were like 
trunks of trees, and did not at all resemble the windows 
of real chalets, so I refused to draw them. The good 
man then told me to copy them from nature, just as 
they appeared to me. Just then we left the hotel 
to live in a family boarding-house, with Mont Blanc 
in front of us. I therefore copied scrupulously all 
that was visible of Geneva and the lake. 



Xiv AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 

r When I am dead, my life, which appears to me a 
remarkable one, will be read. (The only thing wanting 
is that it should have been different.) But I detest 
prefaces (they have kept me from reading a great 
many excellent books), as well as the notices of editors. 
For this reason I write my own preface. It might 
have been omitted if I had published the whole of 
my journal, but I limited myself to beginning at my 
twelfth year; to give what precedes would render the 
book too long. Besides, I give you glimpses enough 
into it in the course of the journal. I go back to the 
past very often, apropos of anything or nothing. 

What if, seized without warning by a fatal illness, 
I should happen to die suddenly! I should not know, 
perhaps, of my danger; my family would hide it 
from me; and after my death they would rummage 
among my papers; they would find my journal, and 
destroy it after having read it, and soon nothing would 
be left of me — nothing — nothing — nothing! This is 
the thought that has always terrified me. To live, to 
have so much ambition, to suffer, to weep, to struggle, 
and in the end to be forgotten; — as if I had never 
existed. If I should not live long enough to become 
famous, this journal will be interesting to the psy- 
chologist. The record of a woman's life, written down 
day by day, without any attempt at concealment, as 
if no one in the world were ever to read it, yet with 
the purpose of being read, is always interesting; for 
I am certain that I shall be found sympathetic, and I 
write down everything, everything, everything. Other- 
wise why should I write? Besides, it will very soon 
be seen that I have concealed nothing. 

Paris, May i, 1884. 



MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF: 

THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG ARTIST 



J 873. 

Villa Acqua-Viva, 
Promenade des Anglais, Nice. J 

January (at the age of twelve years). — Aunt Sophie 
is playing some of the national airs of Little Russia 
on the piano, and this recalls our country to me. I 
am transported there in fancy, and what recollec- 
tions can I have of that life that are not associated 
with poor grandmamma? The tears are coming to 
my eyes; they are there now, and in another instant 
they wiy fall; they are failing already. Poor grand- 
mamma! How unfortunate I am to have you no 
longer beside me! How tenderly you loved me, and I 
you! But I was too young to love you as you deserved 
to be loved! I am deeply moved by these memories. 
The memory of grandmamma is a respected, a sacred, 
a beloved one, but is not a living one. O my God! 
grant me happiness in this life, and I will be grateful! 
But what am I saying? It appears to me that I have 
been placed in this world in order to be happy; make 
me happy, O my God ! 

Aunt Sophie is still playing. The sounds of the 
piano reach me at intervals, and penetrate my soul. 



2 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1873. 

I have no lessons to learn for to-morrow, for it is Aunt 

Sophie's fete-day. God grant that the Duke of H 

may be mine! I will love him and make him happy! 
I will be happy too. I will do good to the poor. 
It is a sin to think that one can purchase the favor 
of God by good works, but I know not how other- 
wise to express myself. 

I love the Duke of H , but I cannot tell him that 

I love him; and even if I were to tell him so, he would 
pay no attention to it. When he was here I had some 
object in going out, in dressing myself, but now! — 
I used to go to the terrace in the hope of seeing him 
for even a single instant, at a distance. My God, 
assuage my grief! I can pray no more; hear my 
prayer. Thy grace is infinite; Thy mercy great! 
Thou hast granted me so many blessings! It grieves 
me to see him no longer on the promenade. His 
face was easily distinguishable among the vulgar faces 
of Nice. 

Mrs. Howard invited us yesterday to spend the day 
with her children. We were on the point of setting 
out, when she returned to say that she had asked 
mamma's permission to keep us till evening. We re- 
mained, and after dinner we all went to the great draw- 
ing-room, which was dark, and the girls begged me so 
much to sing; they went on their knees to me — the 
children as well; we laughed a great deal; I sang 
"Santa Lucia," "The Sun is Risen," and some roulades. 
They were all so delighted that they embraced me 
frantically. If I could produce the same effect upon 
the public I would go on the stage this very day. 

It causes so profound an emotion to be admired for 
something more than one's dress! Truly, I am trans- 
ported by these words of praise from children. WHat 
would it be, then, if I were admired by others? 

I was made for triumphs and emotions; the best 
thing I can do, therefore, is to become a singer. If 



1873.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 3 

the good God would only preserve, strengthen, and 
develop my voice, then I should enjoy the triumph for 
which I long. Then I should enjoy the happiness 
of being celebrated, and admired; and in that way 
the one I love might be mine. If I remain as I am, 
I have but little hope of his loving me; he is ignorant 
even of my existence. But when he sees me sur- 
rounded by glory, in the midst of triumphs ! Men are 
so ambitious! And I shall be received in society, for 
I shall not be a celebrity out of a tobacco-shop or a 
filthy street. I am of noble birth; I have no need 
to make use of my talents — my fortune does not re- 
quire it — so that I shall have all the greater glory for 
elevating myself, and it will be all the easier for me 
to do so. In that way my life would be perfect. I 
dream of glory, of fame, of being known throughout 
the world! 

To see thousands of persons, when you appear upon 
the stage, await with beating hearts the moment when 
you shall begin to sing; to know as you look at them 
that a single note of your voice will bring them all 
to your feet; to look at them with a haughty glance 
(for I can do anything) — that is my dream, that is 
my life, that is my happiness, that is my desire. And 
then, in the midst of all this, Monsignor le Due de 

H will come with the others to throw himself 

at my feet, but he shall not meet with the same re- 
ception as the others. Dear, you will be dazzled by 
my splendor, and you will love me! You will behold 
me in all my glory, and it is true that you deserve for 
a wife only such a woman as I hope to become. I 
am not ugly; I am even pretty — yes, rather pretty 
than ugly. I am extremely well-formed, with all the 
perfection of a statue; I have tolerably fine hair; I 
have a coquettish manner that is very becoming, and 
I know how to conduct myself toward men. 

I am a modest girl, and I would never give a kiss 



4 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASBKIRTSEFF. [1873. 

to any other man than my husband; I can boast of 
something that not every girl of twelve or fourteen 
years can say, that is, of never having been kissed, 
and of never having kissed anyone. Then, to see a 
young girl at the highest point of glory to which a 
woman can attain, who has loved him from her child- 
hood with a constant love, simple and modest — all 
this will astonish him; he will want to marry me 
at any cost, and he will do so through pride. But 
what do I say? Why should I not admit that he 
may love me? Ah, yes, with the help of God; God 
has made me discover the means by which I may possess 
him I love. I thank Thee, my God, I thank Thee ! 

Friday, March 14. — This morning I heard a noise of 
carriages in the Rue de France; I looked out and 

saw the Duke of H driving with four horses on 

the Promenade. Ah, if he is here, he will take part 
in the pigeon-shooting match in April; I will be there 
at any cost ! 

To-day I saw the Duke of H again. No one 

bears himself as he does; he has the air of a king 
when he is driving in his carriage. 

I shall be happy with my husband, for I will not 
neglect myself; I will adorn myself to please him, 
as I adorned myself when I wished to please him for 
the first time. Besides, I cannot understand how a 
man and a woman can love each other tenderly, and 
endeavor to please each other unceasingly, and then 
neglect themselves after marriage. Why believe that 
with the word marriage love must pass away, and that 
only cold and reserved friendship remains; why pro- 
fane marriage by representing the wife in curl-papers 
and a wrapper, with cold-cream on her nose, trying 
to get money from her husband for dresses; why should 
a woman be careless of her appearance before the man 
for whom she should adorn herself the most? I do 



i873-] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 5 

do not see why one should treat one's husband like 
a domestic animal, and yet so long as one is not mar- 
ried, why one should wish to please this man. Why not 
retain always something of coquetry with one's husband, 
and treat him as a stranger whom one desires to 
please? Is it because one need not conceal one's 
love, because it is not a crime to love, and because 
marriage has received God's benediction? Is it be- 
cause that which is not forbidden possesses no value 
in our eyes, and that one can find pleasure only in 
secret and forbidden things? This ought not to be. 

I have strained my voice in singing and injured it, 
so that I have made a promise to God to sing no 
more (a resolution that I have since broken a hundred 
times) until I take lessons; I have prayed to Him in 
the mean time to purify, strengthen and develop it. 
And in order that I may not be tempted to break my 
vow, I have even besought Him to take it from me, 
should I do so. This is frightful, but I will do all I 
can to keep my vow. 

Friday, December 30. — To-day I had on an antedi- 
luvian dress, my little petticoat and black velvet coat, 
over it the tunic and sleeveless jacket of Dina, and 
it all looked very well. I think it is because I know 
how to wear the dress, and carry myself well. (I 
looked like a little old woman.) I was very much 
noticed. I should like to know why they all look at 
me, and whether it is because I appear ridiculous, or 
because I am pretty. I would reward well any one 
who would tell me the truth. I have a mind to ask 
some one (some young man) if I am pretty. I always 
like to believe things that are good, and I should 
prefer to believe that it is because I am pretty. Per- 
haps I deceive myself, but if it be a delusion I would 
rather keep it, because it is a flattering one. What 
would you have? In this world it is necessary to look 



6 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1873. 

at things in their best possible light. Life is so beautiful 
and so short ! 

I have been thinking of what my brother Paul will 
do when he is a man. What profession will he choose? 
For he cannot spend his life as so many people spend 
theirs — first saunter idly about, and then throw him- 
self into the world of gamblers and cocottes; no! Be- 
sides, he has not the means of doing this. I write 
sensible letters to him every Sunday — not sermons, 
no! but letters such as a comrade might write him. 
Well, I shall know what to do, and, with God's help, 
I shall exert some influence over him, for he must 
be a man. 

I was so preoccupied that I had almost forgotten 
(what a shame!) the absence of the Duke! It seems as 
if so great a gulf separates us, especially if we go to 
Russia in the summer. They are talking seriously of 
that. How can I imagine that he should ever be mine? 
He no more thinks of me than he does of last year's 
snow. I do not exist for him. If we remain in Nice 
for the winter, I may still hope; but it seems to me 
that with our departure for Russia all my hopes will 
vanish; everything that I had thought possible is dis- 
appearing from my gaze. I am passing through a 
period of supreme anguish — a change in my whole 
nature is taking place. How strange it is! 

I am overwhelmed by my thoughts. O my God, 
at the thought that he will never love me I am ready 
to die of grief! I have no longer any hope. I was 
mad to desire things so impossible. I wished to 
possess what was too beautiful. Ah, but no! I must 
not allow myself to be thus carried away. What! 
I dare despair thus ! Is there not a God to whom all 
things are possible, who protects me? What! I dare 
entertain these thoughts? Is He not everywhere, 
watching over us? He can do all things; He is all- 
powerful; for Him there is neither time nor space. 



1873-1 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 7 

I may be in Peru, and the Duke in Africa, and if He 
wishes He can bring us together. How can I have 
entertained for a single moment a despairing thought? 
How can I have forgotten for an instant His divine 
goodness? Is it because He does not give me every- 
thing that I desire at once that I dare to deny Him? 
No, no, He is more merciful; He will not allow a 
soul as innocent as mine to be torn apart by these 
sinful doubts. 

This morning I pointed out a coal-vender to Mile. 
Colignon (my governess) saying: "See how much 

that man resembles the Duke of H ". She replied, 

smiling: "What nonsense!" It gave me an inde- 
scribable pleasure to pronounce his name. But I 
notice that if we never speak of the man we love, 
our love grows stronger; but if we speak continually 
of him, our love diminishes. It is like a vial of some 
essence; if it be corked, the perfume remains strong, 
while if it be open, the perfume evaporates. This is 
precisely the case with my love; it remains strong be- 
cause I never hear him I love spoken of. I never speak 
of him, I keep him entirely for myself. 

I am very sad. I have no positive ideas regarding 
my future; that is to say, I know what I would like 
to have, but not what I shall have. How gay I was 
last winter! Everything smiled on me; I had hope. 
I love a shadow which perhaps I shall never possess. 
I am in despair about my gowns; they have cost me 
many tears. I went with my aunt to two dressmakers; 
but they were both unsatisfactory. I shall write to 
Paris; I cannot bear the gowns here. 

This evening we spent at church; it is the first day 
of our Holy Week, and I performed my devotions. I 
must say that there are many things about our religion 
which I do not like; but it is not for me to reform them; 
I believe in God, in Christ, and in the Holy Virgin. 
I pray to God every night, and I have no wish to 



8 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1873. 

trouble myself about a few trifles that have nothing 
to do with true religion — with true faith. I believe 
in God, and He is good to me; He gives me more than 
I need. Oh, if He would only give me what I desire 
so much ! The good God will have pity on me, although 
I might do without what I ask. I should be so happy 
if the Duke would only take notice of me, and I would 
bless God. 

I must write his name, for if I neither mentioned it 
to any one nor even wrote it down here I could no 
longer live. ... It is some slight consolation only to 
write it. On the Promenade I saw with joy a carriage 
containing a young man,* tall, slender, and dark. I 
thought I recognized some one. I gave a cry of sur- 
prise: " Oh, caro — !" They asked me what was 
the matter ; I answered that Mile. Colignon had stepped 
on my foot. He resembles his brother in nothing. 
Nevertheless, it makes me happy to see him. Ah, if 
I could only make his acquaintance, at least; for 
through him I might come to know the Duke! I 
love him as if he were my brother; I love him be- 
cause he is his brother. At dinner Walitsky said 

suddenly, "H ." I blushed; I was confused, and 

I walked toward the cupboard. Mamma reproved me 
for this, saying that it was very wrong. I think she 
divines something, because every time any one men- 
tions the name H I blush or leave the room 

abruptly. She does not scold me for it, however. 

They are all sitting in the dining-room, chatting 
together quietly, and thinking me occupied with my 
studies. They are ignorant of what is passing within 
me, and they do not know what my thoughts are 

now. I must be either the Duchess of H , and 

that is what I most desire (for God knows how ardently 

I love him), or become famous on the stage; but this 

career does not attract me so much as the other. It 

* The Duke's brother. 



1873-1 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 9 

is doubtless flattering to receive the homage of the 
entire world, from the lowest to the sovereigns of the 
earth, but the other! — Yes, I will have him I love; 
that is altogether another kind of happiness, and I 
prefer it. A great lady — a duchess — I would rather 
be this in society, than be the first among the celeb- 
rities of the world, for that would not be my world. 

May 6. — Mamma is up, and Mile. C also, for 

she has been ill. It was so delightful after the rain! 
so fresh, and the trees looked so beautiful with the 
sun shining on them, that I could not study. I went 
into the garden and placed my chair beside the fountain 
and had before me a magnificent picture, for this foun- 
tain is surrounded by large trees, that completely shut 
out the prospect. All that is to be seen is a brook, and 
rocks covered with moss, and on every side trees of 
different kinds, their foliage lighted up by the sun. 
And the soft, green turf! Truly I was tempted to 
roll on it. All this made a sort of grove, so fresh, so 
soft, so green, so beautiful that I should try in vain 
to give you an idea of it; I cannot. If the villa and 
the garden do not change, I will bring him here to show 
him the spot where I have so often thought of him. 
Yesterday evening I prayed to God, and when I came 
to the part where I asked that I might know the 
Duke, that God would grant me this happiness, I 
shed tears. Three times already has God listened to 
me, and granted my prayer: the first time I asked 
Him for a set of croquet, and my aunt brought me 
one from Geneva; the second time I asked Him to 
help me to learn English. I prayed and wept so much, 
and my imagination was so excited that I thought I 
beheld an image of the Virgin in a corner of the room, 
who promised what I asked for. I could even recog- 
nize the face, if I should see it again. 

I don't want any one to think that, when I have 



io JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1873. 

done with studying, I shall do nothing, but dance and 
dress myself; no, having finished the studies of child- 
hood, I shall devote myself seriously to painting, music, 
and singing. I have talent for all this, and a great 
deal of it! What a consolation it is to write this! I 
am already calmer. Not only do the annoyances I 
suffer injure my health, but they injure my disposition 
and my appearance. This flush that overspreads my 
face makes my cheeks burn as with fire, and when 
calmness returns they are no longer either fresh or 
rosy. This color which I am condemned to have 
always in my face will make me pale and faded, and 

that is Mile. C 's fault, for the agitation she 

causes me produces it. I even have slight head- 
aches after my face has burned like this. Mamma 
scolds me; she says it is my fault that I do not speak 
English. How indignant that makes me! 

I think, if he should ever read this journal, that he 
will find it stupid, — above all, my confessions of love. 
I have repeated them so often that they have lost all 
their force. Ah, when one thinks what a miserable 
creature man is! Every other animal can, at his will, 
wear on his face the expression he pleases. He is not 
obliged to smile if he has a mind to weep. When he 
does not wish to see his fellows he does not see them. 
While man is the slave of everything and everybody! 
And yet I draw this very fate upon myself. I love to 
visit, and I love to see visitors. , 

Last night I had a horrible dream. We were in a 
house that I had never seen before, when suddenly I, 
or some one, I do not remember who, looked out of 
the window. The sun had increased in size until it 
covered almost half of the sky, but it did not shine, 
and it gave forth no heat. Then it separated into 
parts, and a quarter of it disappeared; the remainder 
separated again into parts, changing color as it did 
so, and casting a glow all around; then a cloud over- 



1873-1 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. II 

spread one half of the sun, and everybody cried out, 
"The sun has stopped moving." It remained for 
some moments immovable, but pallid; then something 
strange happened to the earth; it was not that it 
trembled; I cannot describe what it was. There are 
no words to express what we do not comprehend. 
Then the sun began to move again, like two wheels, 
one within the other; that is to say, that part of the 
sun which remained shining was covered at intervals 
by a cloud round like itself. Every one was troubled. 
Mamma was not with us; she came afterward in a 
kind of omnibus, and seemed to be not at all frightened. 
Everything was strange; this omnibus was not like 
other omnibuses. Then I began to examine my 
dresses; we were packing our things into a little 
trunk. But at that instant everything began over 
again. "It is the end of the world," I thought, and I 
asked myself how it was that God had not warned 
me of it, and how it was that I was thought worthy 
to be present in the flesh, on this day. Every one 
was afraid, and we got into the vehicle with mamma, 
and returned, I know not where. 

What is the meaning of this dream? Is it sent by 
God to forewarn me of some great event? or is it 
simply the result of nervousness? 

Mile. C goes away to-morrow. All the same it 

is a little sad. It is painful to part from even a dog 
with which one has lived. It matters not whether the 
existing relations were pleasant or not, I have a worm 
gnawing at my heart. 

Time passes swift as an arrow. In the morning I 
study a little — the piano for two hours. The Apollo 
Belvidere which I am going to copy bears some slight 
resemblance to the Duke. In the expression, especially, 
the likeness is very strong — the same manner of car- 
rying the head, and the same shaped nose. 

Manote, my music teacher, was very much pleased 



12 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1873. 

with me this morning. I played a part of Mendels- 
sohn's concerto in G-minor without a single mistake. 
Then we went to the Russian church — the Church of 
the Trinity. The whole church was decorated with 
flowers and plants. Prayers were offered up, in which 
the priest asked pardon for sins, mentioning each 
one separately. Then he knelt down and prayed 
again. Everything he said was so applicable to me 
that I remained motionless, listening to and echoing 
his prayer. This is the second time that I have 
prayed with so much fervor in church. The first time 
was on New Year's day. The service has become 
so banal, and then the things spoken of are not those 
of everyday life — things that concern every one. I go 
to mass, but I do not pray. The prayers and the 
hymns they sing find no response either in my 
heart or in my soul. They prevent me from 
praying with freedom, while the Te Deunt, in 
which the priest prays for every one (where every 
one finds something applicable to himself) penetrates 
my soul. 

Paris — At last I have found what I longed for without 
knowing what it was! Life, that is Paris! Paris, that 
is life! I tormented myself because I did not know 
what I desired; now I see before me — I know — what 
I desire. To go from Nice to Paris; to have an apart- 
ment, to furnish it; to have horses, as we have at 
Nice; to have the entree to society through the medium 
of the Russian Ambassador — this, this is what I 
desire. How happy it makes one to know what one 
desires! But there is one thought that tortures me — 
it is, that I am ugly! This is horrible! 

Nice — I regard Nice as an exile. I must, before 
everything, make an order of exercises for each day, 
including the hours of my different professors. On 
Monday I begin again my studies, which were cut 
short so diabolically by Mile. Colignon. With the 



1873-1 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 13 

winter people will come to the city, and with people, 
gayety. It will then be no longer Nice, but a little 
Paris. And the races! Nice has its good side. All 
the same, the six or seven months we are to spend here 
seem to me like a sea that is to be crossed without 
once removing my eyes from the beacon that guides 
me. I do not hope to stand upon its shore, I only 
hope to see land, and the sight of it alone will endow 
me with force of character, and give me strength to 
endure life until next year. And then? And then! 
Upon my word I know nothing about it, but I hope. 
I believe in God and in His divine goodness — that is 
why I do not lose courage. 

"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most 
High shall abide in the shadow of the Almighty. He 
shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings 
shalt thou trust; his truth shall be thy shield and 
buckler. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by 
night; for the arrow that flieth by day." I cannot 
express what I feel, nor my gratitude to God for his 
goodness toward me. 

June 9. — I have begun to study drawing. I feel tired, 
weak, unable to work. The summers in Nice are 
killing me; no one is here; I am ready to cry; in a 
word, I am unhappy. We live only once. To spend 
a summer at Nice is to lose half one's life. I am crying 
now, a tear has fallen on the paper. Oh, if mamma 
and the others knew what it costs me to remain here, 
they would not keep me in this FRIGHTFUL desert! 
Nothing diverts my thoughts from him. It is so 
long since I have heard his name mentioned, It seems 
to me as if he were dead. And then, I am enveloped 
in darkness; the past I can scarcely recall, the present 
is hideous; I am completely changed; my voice is 
hoarse; I have grown ugly; formerly on awaking in 
the morning I was fresh and rosy. But what is it 



14 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1873. 

that tortures me thus? What has happened to me? 
What is going to happen? 

We have hired the Villa Bacchi. To tell the truth, 
it is very distressing to have to live there; for the 
bourgeois it is well enough, but for us! As for me I 
am an aristocrat ; I prefer a ruined gentleman to a rich 
bourgeois. I find a greater charm in old satin, or in 
the gilding, blackened by time, of old-fashioned columns 
and ornaments, than in rich and tasteless furniture 
that obtrudes itself upon the eye. A true gentleman 
will not base his pride on having shining boots and 
well-fitting gloves. Not that one should be careless 
as to one's appearance, no; but between the careless- 
ness of the nobleman and the carelessness of the 
plebeian there is such a difference ! 

We are going to leave this lodging, and I am sorry 
for it; not because it is convenient or handsome, but 
because it is like an old friend, and I am accustomed 
to it. When I think that I shall never again see my 
beloved study! I have thought so often of him here! 
This table on which I am leaning, and on which I have 
written day by day all that was sweetest and most 
sacred in my soul; those walls over which my glances 
wander, seeking to pierce them and fly far, far away! 
In each flower of the wall-paper I behold him! How 
many scenes have I pictured to myself in this study, 
in each of which he played the principal role! It 
seems to me there is not a single thing in the world of 
which I have not thought in this little room, from the 
simplest to the most fantastic. 

In the evening Paul, Dina, and I remained for a 
while together; then they left me alone. The moon 
shone into my chamber, and I did not light the candles. 
I went out on the terrace, and listened to the distant 
sounds of a violin, guitar, and flute. I returned quickly 
to my room and sat down by the window in order to 
listen more at my ease. It was a charming trio. It 



1873.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 15 

is long since I have listened to music with so much 
pleasure. In a concert one's attention is engaged 
more by the audience than by the music, but this 
evening, seated all alone by the light of the moon, I 
devoured, if I may use the expression, this serenade, 
for such it was, given us by the young men of Nice. 
They could not be more gallant. Unfortunately the 
fashionable young men do not like these amusements; 
they prefer to spend their time in the cafes chantants, 
but as for music — What can be nobler than to take 
part in a serenade, as in Spain in olden times! Upon 
my word, next to riding, I would choose to spend my 
time under my mistress's window, and after that at 
her feet. 

I should so much like to have a horse! Mamma 
has promised that I shall have one, and my aunt also. 
This evening, in mamma's room, I asked her to give 
me one, in my impulsive, enthusiastic way, and she 
promised it to me seriously. I shall go to bed quite 
happy to-night. Every one tells me I am pretty, 
but in truth, in my own mind I don't think so. My 
pen refuses to write the word; I am graceful only — 
and occasionally pretty. How happy I am! 

I am to have a horse. Did any one ever see a 
little girl like me with a race-horse? I shall make a 
furore. What colors shall my jockey wear? Gray 
and parti-colored? No, green and pale rose. A horse* 
for me! How happy I am! What a creature I am! 
Why not give something from my overflowing cup to 
the poor, who have nothing ? Mamma gives me money ; 
I will give half of it to the poor. 

I have altered the arrangement of my room; it is 
prettier without the table in the middle. I have put 
on it several trifles — an inkstand, a pen, and two old 
traveling candlesticks which had lain hidden away for 
a long time in the box in which things out of use are 
kept. The world, that is my life; it calls me, it 



16 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1873. 

waits for me, I long to run to meet it, but I am not 
old enough yet to go into society. But I long to be 
old enough, not for the sake of marrying, but because 
I want to see mamma and my aunt shake off their 
laziness. Not the world of Nice, but the world of 
St. Petersburg, of London, of Paris; there it is that 
I could breathe freely, for the constraints of society 
are freedom for me. 

Paul has no taste, as yet; he understands nothing 
about woman's beauty. I have heard him say : " Beau- 
ties, such ugly creatures as those!'' I must form his 
manners and his tastes. So far, indeed, I do not 
exercise a great deal of influence over him, but I hope 
to do so in time. For the present, I try to communicate 
my own views of things to him, without his suspecting 
it; I convey sentiments of the severest morality to 
him under a frivolous guise. 

Tuesday, July 29. — Here we are on our way to 
Vienna; our departure was, on the whole, a cheerful 
one. I was, as usual, the soul of the party. 

September 2. — The drawing-master has come; I gave 
him a list of subjects I wished to study, the other day, 
that he might send me some professors from the 
School. At last I shall set to work! On Mile. Colig- 
non's account I have lost four months, which is mon- 
strous. Binsa went to the censor, who asked him 
for a day's time. Seeing my note, he inquired: "How 
old is the young girl who wants to study all this; 
and who makes out such a programme for herself?" 
The stupid Binsa answered, "Fifteen years old." I 
scolded him severely for doing so; I was furious, en- 
raged. Why should he say I am fifteen? It is not 
true. He excused himself by saying that, judging 
from my reasoning powers, I was twenty; that he 
thought he did very well in saying that I was only 



1873-1 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 17 

two years older than I am, etc. I exacted from him 
to-day at dinner a promise that he should tell the 
censor how old I am; I exacted it. 

Friday, September 19. — I try to be cheerful under all 
circumstances; one ought not to sadden one's-self by 
grieving. Life is so short, one should laugh while 
one can. Tears will come of themselves, those at least 
we can avoid, but there are sorrows which we cannot 
escape, such as death and absence; yet even this last 
has its charms, so long as one has the hope of being 
reunited to the absent one. But to spoil one's life 
with petty worries is a shame. I pay no heed to such 
trifles; I have a horror of trivial, every-day annoyances, 
so I let them pass with a smile. 

Monday, October 13. — I was looking up my lesson 
to-day when little Heder, my English governess, said 
to me: "Do you know that the Duke is going to 

marry the Duchess M ?" I put the book closer 

to my face, for I was as red as fire. I felt as if a 
sharp knife had pierced my heart. I began to tremble 
so violently that I could scarcely hold the volume. I 
was afraid I was going to faint, but the book saved 
me. I pretended to be looking for the place for a few 
moments, until I grew calmer. I said my lesson in 
a voice that trembled with emotion. I summoned all 
my courage — as I had done on a former occasion, 
when I wished to throw myself over the bridge — and 
told myself that I must control myself. I wrote a 
dictation so as not to have to speak. I was rejoiced 
when I went to the piano; I tried to play, but my 
fingers were cold and stiff. The Princess came to ask 
me to teach her to play croquet. "With pleasure," 
I responded gayly; but my voice still trembled. I 
ran to dress myself. In a green gown — my hair is 
the color of gold, and my complexion white and red — 



i8 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1873. 

I looked as pretty as an angel or a woman. I kept 
thinking continually, "He is going to marry! Can 
it be possible? How unhappy I am!" — not unhappy, 
as formerly, on account of the paper of one room, 
or the furniture of another, but really unhappy! 

I did not know how to tell the Princess that he was 
going to be married (for they will all know it some 
day), and it is better I should tell it myself. I chose a 
moment when she was seated in an arm-chair; the 
light was behind me so that she could not see my 
face. "Do you know the news, Princess?" I said 

(we spoke in Russian), "the Duke of H is going to 

be married." At last, I had said the words. I did 
not grow red; I was calm; but what passed within 
me, in the depths of my soul, no one shall ever know ! 

We went out for a walk, but Nice is no longer Nice. 
The only thing that bound me to Nice was he. I 
detest Nice 1 I can scarcely endure the thought of 
remaining here. I am weary! ah, how weary I am! 

My God, save me from despair! My God, pardon 
me my sins; do not punish me for them! All is 
ended! — ended! 

Friday, October 17. — I was playing on the piano 
when the newspapers were brought in. I took up 
Galignani's Messenger, and the first words on which 
my eyes fell related to the marriage of the Duke of 

H . The paper did not fall from my hands; on 

the contrary it remained tight in my grasp. I had 
not the strength to stand; I sat down and re-read 
the blighting lines a dozen times over to assure myself 
that I was not dreaming. O Divine charity! what 
have I read! My God, what have I read! I could 
not write in the evening, I threw myself on my knees 
and wept. Mamma came into the room, and in 
order that she might not see me in this state I pre- 
tended that I was going to inquire if tea was ready. 



i873-] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 19 

And I have to take a Latin lesson! Oh, torture! 
Oh, anguish! I can do nothing, I cannot remain 
quiet. There are no words to express what I feel; 
but what makes me desperate, what enrages me, what 
kills me, is jealousy — jealousy and envy; they rend 
my soul apart, they make me furious, mad! If I 
could only let my feelings be seen! But I must hide 
them and seem calm, and that makes me all the more 
miserable. 

I shall learn to forget in time, no doubt. To say 
that my grief will be eternal would be ridiculous — 
nothing is eternal. But the fact is that, for the 
present, I can think of nothing else. He does not 
marry; they marry him. It is all owing to the machi- 
nations of his mother. (1880. — All this on account of 
a man whom I had seen a doren times in the street, — 
whom I did not know, and who did not know that I was 
in existence.) Oh, I detest him! I want to see them 
together. They are at Baden-Baden that I loved so 
much! Those walks where I used to see him, those 
kiosks, those shops! 

(All this re-read in 1880 produces no effect on me 
whatever.) 

To-day I will alter in my prayer all that relates 
to him. I will no longer pray to God that I may 
become his wife! To give up this prayer seems to 
me impossible, killing ! I shed tears like a fool ! Come, 
come, my child, let us be reasonable. 

It is ended! yes, it is ended! Ah, I see now that 
our wishes are not always granted. Let me make 
ready for the torture of altering the prayer. Ah, that 
is the crudest of all suffering — it is the end of every- 
thing. Amen. 

Saturday, October 18. — I have altered my prayer. I 
have omitted the prayer for him. I felt as if my heart 
were being torn out — as if I saw them carrying away 



20 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1873. 

the coffin of one dear to me. While the coffin is still 
there, one is unhappy indeed, but not so unhappy as 
when one feels a void on every side. I am a strange 
creature; no one suffers as I do, yet I live, I sing, 
I write. How changed I am since the thirteenth of 
October, — that fatal day ! Suffering is depicted on my 
countenance. His name is no longer the source of a 
beneficent warmth. It is fire; it is a reproach to me, 
it awakens jealousy and grief within me. This is the 
greatest misfortune that can happen to a woman; and 
I have experienced it ! Bitter mockery ! 

I begin to think seriously about my voice. I should 
so much like to sing. To what end, now? He was as 
a lamp within my soul, and now this lamp is extin- 
guished. All there is dark, gloomy, sorrowful. I know 
not which way to turn. Before, in my little troubles 
I had something to lean upon — a light that guided 
and strengthened me. And now I may seek in vain, 
I shall find nothing but a dark and dreary void. It 
is horrible! horrible! when there is only a void in the 
depths of the soul. 

Saturday, October 25. — Yesterday a knock came to 
my door, and they told me that mamma was very ill. 
I went down stairs, half asleep, and found her sitting 
in the dining-room in a dreadful state, She wished 
to see me, she said, before her death. I was seized 
with horror, but I did not allow this feeling to appear. 
Every one was in despair. Dr. Reberg and Dr. Macari 
were sent for. Servants were hurried off in all direc- 
tions for remedies. Never could I give an idea of this 
terrible night. I spent it seated in an arm-chair 
near the window. There were enough persons present 
to do all that was necessary, and besides, I am not 
a good nurse. Never have I suffered so much! Yes, 
on the thirteenth of October I suffered as much, but 
in a different way. 



I873-] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.' r 2ff 

Tuesday, October 28. — Poor mamma is no better; 
those brutes of doctors have blistered her, which has 
made her suffer horribly. The best medicines are cold 
water or tea; those are natural and simple. If a man 
is to die, he will die even though he has the attendance 
of all the doctors in the world; if, on the contrary, he 
is not to die, then he will not die, even if he have no 
assistance at all. Reasoning calmly, it appears to me 
that it is better to dispense with all those pharmaceutic 
horrors. 

Paul will do nothing; he does not study; he is not 
serious enough; he does not understand that it is his 
duty to study, and this grieves me. My God, inspire 
him with wisdom; make him understand that he ought 
to study; inspire him with a little ambition — a little, 
just enough to make him desire to be something. My 
God, hear my prayer, direct him, guard him against 
all those miscreants who seek to turn him from the 
right path ! 

Never could a man beneath me in station succeed 
in pleasing me. Common people disgust me; they 
sicken me. A poor man loses half his manhood. 
He looks small, miserable, and has the air of a beggar, 
while the rich and independent man carries himself 
haughtily, and has a certain comfortable air. Self- 
confidence gives one a victorious look. And I love in 

H this self-confident, capricious, vain, and cruel 

air. He has something of the Nero in him. 

Saturday, November 8. — We should never give too 
much of our society even to those who love us. It is 
well not to stay too long in any company so as to leave 
regrets and illusions behind us when we depart. One 
will thus appear to better advantage, and seem to be 
worth more. People will then desire to see you 
return; but do not gratify that desire immediately; 
make them wait for you, but not too long, however. 
Anything that costs too much loses by the difficulty 



22 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1873. 

with which it is obtained. Something better was 
anticipated. Or, on the other hand, make them wait 
a veiy long time for you — then you will be a queen. 

I think I must have a fever; I suffer, and I try 
to disguise my feelings by talking. No one would 
suspect it; I sing, I laugh, I jest. The more unhappy 
I am the gayer I seem to be. 

All that I could write would never express what I 
feel; I am stupid, mad; I feel myself deeply aggrieved. 
It seems to me that in marrying the Duke they are 
robbing me of him. It is, in truth, as if they had 
taken something from me that was my own. What a 
wretched state! I do not know how to express my- 
self, but I feel that I am too weak ; for a mere nothing 
I make use of the strongest expressions, and when 
I wish to speak seriously I find there is nothing 
left. 

It is only now that looking at mamma as if she 
were a stranger, I find that she is charming, beautiful 
as the day; although she is worn out with all sorts of 
troubles and maladies. When she speaks her voice 
is so sweet — not high, but vibrating and sweet — and her 
manners, although natural and simple, are agreeable. 

Saturday, Novermber 29. — I am tortured by jealousy, 
love, envy, deceit, w r ounded vanity, by every hideous 
feeling in the world. Above all, I feel his loss. I 
love him ! 

One thing tortures me especially; it is that in a 
few years I shall laugh at myself, that I shall have 
forgotten all this! (1875. — It is two years since that 
time, yet I do not laugh at myself, and I have not for- 
gotten.) All these sorrows will seem to me childishness 
and affectation — but, no, I conjure you, do not forget! 
When you read these lines go back to the past, think 
that you are again thirteen years old; that you ar$ 
at Nice; that all this is taking place now! Think 



I874-] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 23 

that the past lives now! You will understand! You 
will be happy! 

Sunday, November 30. — I wish he would marry at 
once. It is always thus with me; when anything dis- 
agreeable is to be done, instead of wanting to put it 
off, I wish to have it over. When we left Paris, I 
made them hasten the hour of our departure; I knew 
that pill must be swallowed. The expectation of an 
unpleasantness is more terrible than the thing itself. 



1874. 



f Sunday, January 4. — How sweet it is to awaken 
naturally from sleep! My alarm has not yet sounded, 
and my eyes have unclosed themselves! It is as if 
one were gliding on in a boat : one sinks into a revery , 
and when one wakens out of it one has already arrived 
at one's destination. 

Friday, January 9. — On returning from a walk to-day 
I said to myself that I would not be like some girls, 
who are comparatively serious and reserved. I do not 
understand how this seriousness comes; how from 
childhood one passes to the state of girlhood. I asked 
myself, "How does this happen? Little by little, or 
in a single day?" Love, or a misfortune, is what 
develops, ripens, or alters the character. If I were a 
bel esprit I should say they were synonymous terms; 
but I do not say so, for love is the most beautiful 
thing in the whole world. I compare myself to a 
piece of water that is frozen in its depths, and has 
motion only on the surface, for nothing amuses or 
interests me in my depths. 



24 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1874. 

Thursday , /#«£ 24. — All last winter I could not 
sing a note. I was in despair; I thought I had lost 
my voice, and I blushed and remained silent when I 
was spoken to. Now it has come back again, my 
voice, my treasure, my fortune! I receive it with 
tears in my eyes, and I thank God for it on my knees. 
I said nothing, but I was cruelly grieved. I did not 
dare speak of it. I prayed to God, and He has heard 
me! What happiness! What a pleasure it is to 
sing well! One feels as if one were all-powerful, one 
thinks one's-self a queen! How happy one is! happy 
in one's own worth. It is not like the pride that 
springs from the possession of wealth or a title. One 
is more than woman; one feels one's-self immortal. 
One is freed from earth; one soars to heaven! And 
all the people who hang upon your notes, who listen 
to your song as to a voice from heaven, who are elec- 
trified, carried away by enthusiasm, ravished — you 
hold sway over them all. After real sovereignty 
comes the sovereignty of song. The sovereignty of 
beauty comes after this, because its sway is not a 
universal one; but song lifts man above the earth; his 
soul soars above it in a cloud like that in which Venus 
appeared to ^Eneas. 

Tuesday, July 6. — Nothing in the world is lost. If 
we cease to love one individual, this affection is im- 
mediately transferred to another, even without our 
being conscious of it; and if we fancy we love no one, 
we deceive ourselves. If one does not love a man, 
one loves a dog or a piece of furniture; and with the 
same ardor, only in a different fashion. If I loved a 
man, I would want him to love me as I lovsd him. 
I would allow nothing — not even a single word — for 
another. Such a love is not to be found; therefore 
I will never love, for I should never be loved as I 
desire to be loved. 



I874-I JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 2$ 

July 14. — They have been talking of Larin, of the 
School, of the examination; all this has given me an 
intense desire to study, and when Brunet came to-day, 
I did not keep him waiting. I asked him about the 
examination; the information he gave me was such 
that I feel myself capable, after a year's preparation, 
of presenting myself for the degree of bachelor of arts 
and sciences. I will speak to him further about it. 

July 15. — Last night I said to the moon, after 
leaving the Sapogenikoff 's : " Moon, O beautiful ^moon, 
show me the person I shall marry before I die!" 

If you say these words to the moon, without speak- 
ing afterward until you fall asleep, they say the per- 
son you dream of is the one you are to marry. 

It is all nonsense. I dreamed of S. and A. — two 
impossibilities. I am in a bad humor; I fail in every- 
thing I attempt; nothing succeeds with me. I shall 
be punished for my pride and my stupid arrogance. 
Read this, good people, and profit by it ! This journal 
is the most useful and the most instructive of all the 
books that were or ever will be written. It is the 
transcript of a woman's life — her thoughts and hopes, 
her deceptions, meannesses, good qualities, sorrows 
and joys. I am not yet altogether a woman, but I 
shall be. One may follow me here from childhood to 
death. For the life of any one — one's entire life, 
without concealment or disguise — is always a grand 
and interesting spectacle. 

Friday, July 16. — In regard to the transference of 
love, all I possess at present is concentrated on Victor, 
one of my dogs. I breakfast with him sitting opposite 
to me, his fine, large head resting on the table. Let 
us love dogs; let us love only dogs! Men and cats 
are unworthy creatures. And yet a dog is a filthy 
animal. He looks at you with hungry eyes while 
you eat; he follows you about for the sake of his 
dinner. Yet I never feed my dogs and they love 



26 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1874. 

me, and Prater, through jealousy of Victor, has left 
me and gone over to mamma! And men — do not 
they ask to be fed? Are they not voracious and 
mercenary ? 

We do not return to Russia. . . . 

I am going to say once more to the moon: "Moon, 

beautiful moon, show me in my sleep the person 

1 am to marry before I die!" 

My hair, fastened in a Psyche knot, is redder than 
ever. In a woolen gown of a peculiar white, well- 
fitting and graceful, and a lace handkerchief around my 
neck, I look like one of the portraits of the First Empire; 
in order to make the picture complete I should be 
seated under a tree, holding a book in my hand. I 
love to be alone before a looking-glass, and to admire 
my hands, so fine and white, and faintly rosy in the 
palms. 

Perhaps it is stupid to praise one's-self in this way, 
but people who write always describe their heroine; 
and I am my heroine. And it would be ridiculous for 
me to lower or belittle myself through false modesty. 
One makes little of one's-self in conversation, because 
one is sure of being contradicted, but if I were to do 
so in writing, every one would believe I was speaking 
the truth, and that I was ugly and stupid, and that 
would be absurd ! 

Fortunately or unfortunately, I esteem myself so 
great a treasure that I think there is no one worthy of 
me, and those who raise their eyes to this treasure 
are regarded by me as hardly worthy of pity. I think 
myself a divinity, and I cannot conceive how a man 

like G. should fancy he could please me. I 

could scarcely treat a king as an equal. I think that 
is as it should be. I look down on men from such a 
height that they find me charming, for it is not becoming 
to despise those who are so far beneath us. I regard 
them as a hare would regard a mouse. 



I874-I JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 27 

Monday, August 2. — After a day spent with seam- 
stresses and dressmakers, in shopping, promenading, 
and coquetting, I put on my wrapper and sat down to 
read my good friend Plutarch. 

Tuesday, August 17. — Last night I dreamed of the 
Fronde: I had entered the service of Anne of Austria, 
I thought, and she doubted my loyalty, so I led her 
into the midst of the rebellious people, crying "Vive 
la Reine!" and the people cried after me, "Vive la 
Reiner 

Wednesday, August 18. — To-day has been spent in 
admiring me. Mamma admired me, and the Princess 
G. admired me. The Princess is always saying that 
I look either like mamma or like her daughter; and 
that is the greatest compliment she could pay me. 
One never thinks better of others than of one's own. 
The fact is, that I am really pretty. The picture on 
the ceiling of the great salon of the Ducal Palace at 
Venice, by Paul Veronese, represents Venus as a 
tall woman, blonde and fresh-colored. I resemble 
that picture. My photographs are never like me. 
Color is wanting in them, and the unequaled freshness 
and whiteness of my skin are my chief charm. But 
let any one put me in a bad humor; let me be dis- 
satisfied with anything; let me be tired — and adieu 
to my beauty! There is nothing more fragile than 
I. It is only when I am happy and tranquil that I 
am charming. 

Paris, Wednesday, August 24. — I begin now to live, 
and to try to realize my dreams of becoming famous. 
I am already known to many people. I look at myself 
in the glass, and I find that I am beautiful. I am 
beautiful; what more do I want? Can I not accom- 
plish anything with that? My God, in giving me the 



28 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1874. 

little beauty I possess (I say little through modesty) 
you have already given me too much. O my God! 
I feel myself to be beautiful; it seems to me that I 
shall succeed in all that I undertake. Everything 
smiles upon me, and I am happy, happy, happy! 

The noise of Paris, this hotel, as large as a city, 
with people always walking, talking, reading, smoking, 
looking, confuse me. I love Paris, and it makes my 
heart beat with emotion to be here. I want to live 
faster, faster, faster! ("I never saw such a fever 
of life," D. says, looking at me.) It is true; I fear 
that this desire to live always at high pressure is 
the presage of a short existence. Who knows? Come, 
I am growing melancholy. No, I will have nothing 
to do with melancholy. 

Sunday, September 5. — There were so many people 
from Nice in the Bois that I thought for a moment 
I was at Nice. Nice is so beautiful in September! 
I recall the morning walks I took last year with my 
dogs, the sky so pure, the sea so silvery. Here there is 
neither morning nor evening. In the morning they 
are sweeping; in the evening the innumerable lights 
irritate my nerves. I lose my bearings — I cannot 
distinguish the east from the west. While at Nice 
one is comfortable! It is as if one were in a nest 
surrounded by mountains, not too high nor too bare. 
One is sheltered on three sides as if by a graceful 
and easy mantle, and in front there is a boundless 
horizon, always the same, and always new. I love 
Nice. Nice is my country. Nice has seen me grow 
up; Nice has given me health and a fresh color. It 
is so beautiful! One rises with the dawn and sees 
the sun appear yonder to the left, behind the mountains 
which stand out boldly from a silvery blue sky, so 
soft and vaporous that one can scarcely speak for joy. 
Toward noon the sun faces me; it is a warm day, but 



I874.J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 20 

it does not seem warm; there is that delightful breeze 
that always keeps the atmosphere cool. Everything 
seems asleep. There is not a soul to be seen on the 
promenade save two or three of the townspeople 
dozing on the benches. Then I can breathe freely; 
then I can admire nature. In the evening the same 
sea, the same sky, the same mountains. But at night 
all is black or deep blue. And when the moon shines, 
leaving a silvery track upon the waters that looks like 
an enormous fish with diamond scales, and I am seated 
at my window, peaceful and alone, a mirror and two 
wax tapers in front, I ask for nothing more, and I 
bow down in thankfulness before God. Oh, no, what 
I desire to express will not be understood; it will 
not be understood because it has not been experienced. 
No, it is not that! It is that I grow desperate every 
time I try to express what I feel! It is as when one 
is in a nightmare and has not the strength to cry out ! 
Besides, one can never give by words the least idea 
of real life. How describe the freshness, the perfume 
of memory? One may invent, one may create, but 
one cannot copy. It is of no avail to feel what one 
writes; commonplace words only are the result ; woods, 
mountains, sky, moon, everybody uses these words. 
And then, why write all this? What does it matter 
to others? Others will never understand it, since it 
is not they, but I, who have felt it. I alone under- 
stand and remember. And then, men are not worth 
the trouble of trying to make them understand. Every 
one feels for himself, as I do. I should like to see 
others feel as I feel, through my means; but that would 
be impossible; to do so they must be I. My child, 
my child, leave all this alone; you lose yourself in 
subtleties of thought. You will become crazy if you 
excite yourself about those things as you did before 
about your depths. There are so many people of 
intelligence — well, not that. I mean to say that it 






30 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1874. 

is their part to understand you. Well, no! They 
can create, but understand — no, no, a hundred thou- 
sand times, no! In all this what is very evident is, 
that I am homesick for Nice. 

Monday, September 6. — Though I am in a state of 
depression and constant suffering, I do not curse life; 
on the contrary, I love it, and I find it good. Will it 
be believed, I find everything, even tears, even grief, 
good and pleasant. I love to weep; I love to give 
myself up to despair; I love to be troubled and sor- 
rowful. I regard these feelings as so many diver- 
sions, and I love life, notwithstanding them all. I 
wish to live. It would be cruel to make me die when 
I am so accommodating. I weep, I complain, and I 
take pleasure in doing so. No, not that; I don't 
know how to express myself. In a word, everything 
in life pleases me; I find everything agreeable; and 
while I ask for happiness I find myself happy in being 
miserable; my body suffers and cries out, but some- 
thing within me, above me, rejoices at everything. 
It is not that I prefer tears to joy, but far from cursing 
life in my moments of despair, I bless it; I say to 
myself that I am unhappy, I pity myself, but I find 
life so beautiful that everything seems to me beautiful, 
and I feel I must live! Apparently this some one 
who is above me, who rejoices at so much weeping, 
has gone out this evening, for I feel very unhappy. 

Thursday, September 9. — We are at Marseilles, and 
are to leave this ill-smelling city at one o'clock. 

At last I behold it, the Mediterranean, for which I 
have sighed. How black the trees are! And the 
moon casts a track of silver light across the waters. 

The silence is complete; there is not a sound, either 
of carriage-wheels or footsteps, ' to be heard. I enter 
my dressing-room and throw open the window to look 



1874-3 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 31 

out upon the chateau, which is unchanged. And the 
clock strikes — what hour I know not — and my heart 
is oppressed with sadness. 

Ah, I might well call this year the year of sighs! 
I am tired, but I love Nice! — I love Nice! 

Friday, September 10 (Journey to Florence). — The 
mosquitoes awakened me a dozen times during the 
night, but, notwithstanding this, I woke up in the 
morning with a sense of well-being, though I was still 
a little fatigued. 

Sunday y September 13. — We drove through the city 
en toilette, in a landau. Ah, how I admire these somber 
edifices, these porticos, these columns, this grand and 
massive architecture! Blush for shame, ye architects 
of England, France, and Russia! Hide yourselves 
under the earth; sink into the ground, ye cardboard 
palaces of Paris! Not the Louvre — that is above 
criticism — but all the others. They will never bear 
comparison with the superb magnificence of the 
Italians. I was struck with amazement on seeing the 
huge stones of the Pitti Palace. The city is dirty, 
almost squalid, but how many beauties it possesses! 
O city of Dante, of the Medici, of Savonarola, how 
full of splendid memorials for those who think, who 
feel, who know! What masterpieces! What ruins! 

puppet-king! Ah, if I were only queen! 

I adore painting, sculpture, art, in short, wherever 
it is to be found. I could spend entire days in those 
galleries, but my aunt is not well; she has difficulty 
in keeping up with me, and I sacrifice myself to her 
comfort. Besides, life is all before me; I shall have 
time enough to see all this afterward. 

At the Pitti Palace I did not find a single costume 
to copy, but what beauty, what art! Must I say it? 

1 dare not. Every one will cry "Shame, shame!" 



32 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1874. 

Come then, in confidence — Well, I don't like the 
Madonna delta Sedia, of Raphael. The countenance of 
the Virgin is pale, the color is not natural, the expres- 
sion is that of a waiting-maid rather than that of a 
Madonna. Ah, but there is a Magdalen of Titian 
that enchanted me. Only — there is always an only — 
her wrists are too thick, and her hands are too plump 
— beautiful hands they would be in a woman of fifty. 
There are things of Rubens and Vandyke that are 
ravishing. The "Mensonge," of Salvator Rosa is very 
natural. I do not speak as a connoisseur; what most 
resembles nature pleases me most. Is it not the aim 
of painting to copy nature? I like very much the full, 
fresh countenance of the wife of Paul Veronese, painted 
by him. I like the style of his faces. I adore Titian 
and Vandyke; but that poor Raphael! Provided 
only no one knows what I write! people would take 
me for a fool. I do not criticize Raphael, I don't 
understand him; in time I shall no doubt learn to 
appreciate his beauties. The portrait of Pope Leo 
— Tenth, I think it is — is admirable, however. A 
"Virgin with the Infant Jesus," of Murillo, attracted 
my attention; it is fresh and natural. To my great 
satisfaction I found the picture gallery smaller than 
I had thought it to be. Those galleries without end — 
those labyrinths more intricate than that of Crete — 
are killing. 

I spent two hours in the palace without sitting 
down for an instant, yet I am not tired. That is be- 
cause the things one loves do not tire one. So long as 
there are paintings, and, better still, statues, to be 
seen, I am made of iron. Ah, if I were compelled to 
walk through the shops of the Louvre, or the Bon 
Marche, or even through the establishment of Worth, 
I should be ready to cry at the end of three-quarters 
of an hour. No journey ever pleased me so much 
as this one has done. I find an endless number of 



1875.I JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 33 

things that are worth being seen; I adore those somber 
Strozzi palaces. And I adore those immense doors, 
those superb courts, those galleries, those colonnades. 
They are majestic, grand, beautiful! Ah, the world is 
degenerating; one would like to sink into the earth 
when one compares our modern buildings with those 
structures of gigantic stones, piled one upon another, 
and mounting up to the sky. One passes under 
bridges that connect palaces at a prodigious height. 

Oh, my child, be careful of your expressions! What 
then, will you say of Rome? 



1875- 

Nice, Friday, October 1. — God has not done what 
I asked Him to do; I am resigned; (not at all, I am 
only waiting). Oh, how tiresome it is to wait, to do 
nothing but wait ! 

Disorder in the house is a source of great annoyance 
to me. The swallow keeps her nest in order, the 
lion his lair; why, then, should not man, so superior 
to the other animals, do the same? 

When I say "so superior," I do not mean that I 
esteem man more than the other animals. No; I 
despise men profoundly and from conviction. I ex- 
pect nothing good from them. I should be satis- 
fied after all my waiting to find one good and perfect 
soul. Those who are good are stupid, and those who 
are intelligent are either too false or too self-conceited 
to be good. Besides, every human being is by nature 
selfish, and find goodness for me if you can in an egotist, 
Self-interest, deceit, intrigue, envy, these are what you 
will find. Happy are they who possess ambition — 
that is a noble passion; through vanity or through 



34 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1875. 

ambition one seeks to appear well in the eyes of others 
sometimes, and that is better than not at all. Well, 
my child, have you come to the end of your philosophy? 
For the moment, yes. In this way, at least, I shall 
suffer fewer disappointments. No meanness will grieve 
me, no base action surprise me. The day will doubt- 
less come when I shall think I have found a man, but, 
if so, I shall deceive myself wofully. I can very 
well foresee that day; I shall then be blind. I say 
this now while I can see clearly. But in that case 
why live; since there is nothing but meanness and 
wickedness in the world? Why? Because I am recon- 
ciled to the knowledge that this is so; because, what- 
ever people may say, life is very beautiful. And be- 
cause, if one does not analyze too deeply, one may 
live happily. To count neither on friendship nor 
gratitude, nor loyalty nor honesty; to elevate one's-self 
courageously above the meannesses of humanity, and 
take one's stand between them and God; to get all 
one can out of life, and that quickly ; to do no injury 
to one's fellow-beings ; to make one's life luxurious and 
magnificent; to be independent, so far as it be pos- 
sible, of others; to possess power! — yes, power! — no 
matter by what means! — this is to be feared and re- 
spected; this is to be strong, and that is the height 
of human felicity, because one's fellow-beings are then 
muzzled, and either through cowardice or for other 
reasons will not seek to tear one to pieces. 

Is it not strange to hear me reason in this way? 
Yes, but this manner of reasoning in a young creature 
like me is but another proof of how bad the world 
is; it must be thoroughly saturated with wickedness 
to have so saddened me in so short a time. I am 
only fifteen. 

And this proves the divine mercy of God; for, 
when I shall be completely initiated into all the base- 
ness of the world, I shall see that there is only He 



I87S-] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 35 

above in the heavens, and I here below on earth. 
This conviction will give me greater strength; I shall 
take note of vulgar things only in order to elevate 
myself, and I shall be happy when I am no longer 
disheartened by the meannesses around which men's 
lives revolve, and which make them fight with each 
other, devour each other, and tear each other to 
pieces, like famished dogs. 

Here are words enough! And to what am I going 
to elevate myself? And how? Oh, dreams! 

I elevate myself intellectually for the present; my 
soul is great, I am capable of great things ; but of what 
use will all that be to me, since I live in an obscure 
corner, unknown to all? 

There, you see that I do set some store by my 
worthless fellow-beings; that I have never disdained 
them; on the contrary, I seek them; without them 
there is nothing in the world. Only — only that I 
value them at their worth, and I desire to make use of 
them. 

The multitude, that is everything. What matter 
to me a few superior beings? I need everybody — I 
need eclat, fame! 

Why can one never speak without exaggeration? . . . 
There are peaceful souls, there are beautiful actions 
and honest hearts, but they are so rarely to be met 
with that one must not confound them with the rest 
of the world. 

Saturday, October 9. — If I had been born Princess 
of Bourbon, like Madame de Longueville; if I had 
counts for servitors, kings for relations and friends; 
if, since my first step in life, I had met only with 
bowed heads and courtiers eager to please me; if I 
had trodden only on heraldic devices, and slept only 
under regal canopies, and had had a succession of 
ancestors each one more glorious and haughtier than 



36 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1875. 

all the rest, it seems to me I should be neither prouder 
nor more arrogant than I am. 

O my God, how I bless thee! These thoughts with 
which you inspire me will keep me in the right path, 
and will prevent me from turning away my gaze even 
for an instant from the luminous star toward which 
I move. I think that, at present, I do not move at 
all; but I shall move; and for so slight a cause it 
is not worth while to alter so fine a sentence. Ah, 
how weary I am of my obscurity! I am consumed 
by inaction; I am growing moldy in this darkness. 
Oh, for the light, the light, the light! From what 
side will it come to me? When? Where? How? I 
desire to know nothing, provided only that it come! 

In my moments of wild longings for greatness 
common objects appear to me unworthy of my atten- 
tion; my pen refuses to write a commonplace word; 
I look with supreme disdain on everything that sur- 
rounds me, and I say to myself with a sigh, "Come 
courage! this stage of existence is but the passage 
to that in which I shall be happy." 

Monday, December 27. — All my life is contained in 
'this diary; my calmest moments arev those in which I 
write; they are perhaps my only calm moments. 

If I should die young, I will bum these pages; but 
if I live to be old, this diary will be given to the public. 
I believe there is no photograph yet, if I may so ex- 
press myself, of the whole life of a woman — of all her 
thoughts, of everything, everything. It will be curious. 

If I die young, and it should chance that my journal 
is not burned, people will say, "Poor child, she has 
loved, and all her despair comes from that!" 

Let them say so, I shall not try to prove the con- 
trary, for the more I should try to do so the less 
would I be believed. 

What can there be more stupid, more cowardly, 



i8 7 S.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 37 

more vile, than humanity? Nothing. Humanity was 
created for the perdition of — good! I was going to 
say, of humanity. 

It is three o'clock in the morning, and, as my aunt 
says, I shall gain nothing by losing my sleep. 

Oh, how impatient I am ! I wish to believe that my 
time will come, but something tells me that it will 
never come; that I shall spend my life in waiting — 
always waiting. 

Tuesday, December 28. — I am so nervous that every 
piece of music that is not a galop makes me shed 
tears. The most commonplace words of any opera 
I chance to come across touch me to the heart. 

Such a condition of things would do honor to a 
woman of thirty. But to have nerves at fifteen, to 
cry like a fool at every stupid, sentimental phrase I 
meet, is pitiable. 

Just now I fell on my knees, sobbing, and praying 
to God with outstretched arms, and eyes fixed straight 
before me, just as if He were there in my room. It 
appears that God does not hear me. Yet I cry to 
Him loudly enough. 

Shall I ever find a dog on the streets, famished, and 
beaten by boys; a horse that drags behind him from 
morning till night a load beyond his strength; a miller's 
ass, a church mouse, a professor of mathematics without 
pupils, an unfrocked priest, a — poor devil of any kind 
sufficiently crushed, sufficiently miserable, sufficiently 
sorrowful, sufficiently humiliated, sufficiently depressed, 
to be compared to me? The most dreadful thing with 
me is that humiliations, when they are past, do not 
glide from my heart, but leave there their hideous traces. 
To be compelled to lead a life like mine, with a char- 
acter such as mine! I have not even the pleasures 
proper to my age! I have not even the resource that 
every American girl has, I do not even dance! 



38 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

Wednesday, December 29. — My God, if you will make 
my life what I wish it to be, I make a vow, if you will 
but take pity upon me, to go from Kharkoff to Kieff, 
on foot, like the pilgrims. If, along with this, you 
will satisfy my ambition and render me completely 
happy, I will take a vow to make a journey to Jeru- 
salem, and to go a tenth part of the way on foot. 
Is it not a sin to say what I am saying? Saints have 
made vows; true, but I seem to be setting conditions. 
No; God sees that my intention is good, and if I 
am doing wrong He will pardon me, for I desire to do 
right. 

My God, pardon me and take pity on me; ordain 
that my vows may be fulfilled! 

Holy Mary, it is perhaps stupid of me, but it seems 
to me, that you, as a woman, are more merciful, more 
indulgent; take me under your protection, and I will 
make a vow to devote a tenth of my revenue to all 
manner of good works. If I do wrong, it is without 
meaning it, Pardon! 



1876. 

Rome, Saturday, January 1. — Oh, Nice, Nice! Is 
there, after Paris, a more beautiful city than Nice? 
Paris and Nice, Nice and Paris. France, nothing but 
France. In France only does one live. 

The question now is to study, since that is what I 
am in Rome for. Rome does not produce on me the 
effect of Rome. Is Rome an agreeable place? May 
I not deceive myself? Is it possible to live in any 
other city than Nice? To pass through other cities, 
to visit them, yes; but to live in them, no! 

Bah ! I shall become accustomed to it. 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 39 

I am here like a poor transplanted flower. I look 
out of the window, and instead of the Mediterranean 
I see grimy houses; I look out of the other window, 
and instead of the chateau I see the corridor of the 
hotel. 

It is a bad thing to acquire habits, and to hate 
change. 

Wednesday, January 5. — I have seen the facade of 
St. Peter's; it is superb. I was enchanted with it, 
especially with the colonnade to the left, because there 
no other building intercepts the view, and these 
columns, with the sky for a background, produce the 
most ravishing effect. One might fancy one's-self in 
ancient Greece. 

The bridge and fort of St. Angelo are also after 
my own ideas. 

And the Coliseum ! 

What remains for me to say of it, after Byron? 

Friday, January 14. — At eleven o'clock my painting- 
master, Katorbinsky, a young Pole, came, bringing 
with him a model — a real Christ-face, if the lines 
and the shadows were a little softened. Katorbinsky 
told me he always took him for his model when he wished 
to paint a Christ. 

I must confess that I was a little frightened when I 
was told to draw from nature, all at once, in this 
way, without any previous preparation. I took the 
charcoal and bravely drew the outlines: "Very good," 
said my master. "Now do the same thing with the 
brush." I took the brush and did as he told me. 

"Good," said he once more; "now work it up." 

And I worked it up, and at the end of an hour and 
a half it was all finished. 

My unhappy model had not budged, and, as for 
me, I could not believe my eyes. With Binsa two or 



40 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

three lessons were necessary to draw the outlines and 
copy a picture, and here was the whole thing done at 
once, after nature — outline, coloring, and background. 
I am satisfied with myself, and, if I say this it is be- 
cause I deserve it. I am severe and hard to please, 
especially where I myself am concerned. 

Nothing is lost in the world. Where, then, does 
love go? Every created being, every individual, is 
endowed with an equal portion of this force or fluid 
at his birth; only that he seems to have more or less 
of it according to his constitution, his character, and 
his circumstances. Every human being loves always, 
but not always the same object; when he seems to 
love no one, the force goes toward God, or toward 
nature, in words, in writings, or simply in sighs or 
thoughts. 

Now there are persons who eat, drink, laugh, and 
do nothing else; with these the force is either absorbed 
by the animal instinct, or dissipated among men and 
things in general; and these are the persons who are 
called good-natured, and who, generally speaking, are 
incapable of the passion of love. There are persons 
who love no one, it is sometimes said. This is not 
true, they always love some one, but in a diffferent 
manner from others — in a manner peculiarly their 
own. But are there still other unhappy persons, 
who really love no one, because they have loved, and 
love no longer? Another error! They love no longer 
it is said. Why, then, do they suffer? Because they 
still love, and think they love no longer, either because 
of disappointed affection, or the loss of the beloved 
object. 

Thursday, January 20. — To-day Facciotti made me 
sing all my notes. He was struck with admiration. 
As for me, I don't know what to do with myself for 
joy; my voice, my treasure, my dream, that is to 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 41 

cover me with glory on the stage! This is for me 
as great a destiny as to become a princess. 

Tuesday, February 15. — . . . Rossi came to see us 

to-day. My mother asked him who A was. 

"He is Count A ," replied Rossi; "a nephew of 

the Cardinal." 

"I asked you who he was," said my mother, "be- 
cause he reminds me very much of my son." 

"He is a charming fellow," returned Rossi; "he is 
a little passarello; sprightly and full of intelligence, 
and he is very handsome." 

Friday, February 18. — There was a grand masked 
ball at the Capitol to-night. Dina, my mother, and I 
went there at eleven o'clock. I wore no domino: I 
was dressed in a close-fitting gown of black silk, with 
a train, a tunic of black gauze trimmed with silver 
lace, light gloves, a rose and some lilies of the valley in 
my corsage. It was charming; consequently our en- 
trance produced an immense effect. 

A has a perfectly beautiful countenance; he 

has a pale complexion, black eyes, a long and regular 
nose, beautiful ears, a small mouth, very passable 
teeth, and the mustache of a young man of twenty- 
three. I treated him by turns as a young fop, as a 
deceitful fellow, as unhappy, as audacious; and he 
told me in return, in the most serious manner in 
the world, how he had run away from home at nine- 
teen; how he had thrown himself headlong into the 
pleasures of life; how blase he is; how he has never 
loved, etc. 

"How many times have you been in love?" he 
asked me. 

"Twice." 

"Oh! oh!" 

"Perhaps even oftener." 



42 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

"I should like to be the oftener" 

"Presumptuous man! Tell me, why has every one 
taken me for that lady there in white? " 

"Because you resemble her. That is why I am with 
you. I am madly in love with her." 

"It is not very polite of you to say so." 

"What would you have! It is the truth." 

"You look at her enough. She is evidently pleased 
by it, for she is posing." 

"Never! She never poses; you may say anything 
else of her but that!" 

"It is easily seen that you are in love." 

"I am — with you; you resemble her." 

"Oh! I have a much better figure." 

"No matter. Give me a flower." 

I gave him a flower, and he gave me a spray of 
ivy in return. His accent and his languishing air 
irritated me. 

"You have the air of a priest. Is it true that you 
are going to be ordained?" I said. 

He laughed. 

"I detest priests; I have been a soldier." 

"You! you have never been anywhere but at the 
seminary." 

"I hate the Jesuits; that is why I am always at 
odds with my family." 

"My dear friend, you are ambitious^ you would 
like to have people kiss your slipper." 

"What an adorable little hand!" he cried, kissing 
my hand — an act which he repeated several times in 
the course of the evening. 

"Why did you begin so badly with me?" I asked. 

"Because I took you for a Roman, and I hate that 
kind of woman." 

Wednesday, February 23. — Looking down from the 
balcony to-day, I saw A , who saluted me. Dina 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 43 

threw him a bouquet, and a dozen arms were stretched 
out to seize it as it fell. One man succeeding in catch- 
ing it; but A , with the utmost sang Jroid, caught 

him by the throat, and held him in his strong grasp 
until the wretch let go his prey. It was so beautifully 
done that A looked almost sublime. I was car- 
ried away by my enthusiasm, and forgetting my 
blushes, and blushing anew, I threw him a camellia; 
he caught it, put it in his pocket, and disappeared. 

You will laugh, perhaps, at what I am going to tell 
you, but I will tell it to you all the same. 

Well, then, by an action like this a man might 
make himself loved by a woman at once. His air was 
so calm while he was strangling the villain that it 
took my breath away. 

Monday, February 28. — On going out into the bal- 
cony on the Corso I found all our neighbors at their 
posts, and the Carnival going on with great anima- 
tion. . . . 

. . . "But what do you do with yourself?" said 

A , with his calm, sweet air. "You no longer go 

to the theater." 

" I have been ill ; my finger pains me still." 

"Where?" (and he wanted to take my hand). "Do 
you know that I went every evening to the Apollo, 
and remained only for five minutes or so?" 

"Why?" 

"Why?" he repeated, looking me straight in the 
eyes. 

"Yes, why?" 

"Because I went there to see you, and you were 
not there." 

He said a great many other things of the same 
kind, accompanied with tender glances, to my great 
amusement. 

He has adorable eyes, especially when he does not 



44 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

open them too wide. His eyelids, covering a quarter 
of the pupil, give his eyes an expression that makes 
my heart beat, and my head grow dizzy. 

Note, May, 1887. — Once for all, pray do not attach 
too much importance to my love-affairs. I did not 

really think what I have written about A . I 

made him handsomer than he was for the sake of 
romance. 

March. — At three o'clock we were at 'the Porta del 

Popolo. Debeck, Plowden, and A met us there. 

A helped me to mount my horse, and we set off. 

My riding-habit is of black cloth, and made in a 
single piece by Laferriere, so that it has nothing of 
the English stiffness, nor of the scantiness of riding- 
habits in general. It is a princesse robe, closely 
fitting — everywhere. 

"How chic you are on horseback," said A . 

Plowden annoyed me by wanting to be continually 
at my side. 

Once alone with the Cardinalino the conversation 
naturally turned on love. 

"Eternal love is the tomb of love," said he; "one 
should love for a day, then make a change." 

"A charming idea! You have taken it from your 
uncle the Cardinal I suppose.". 

"Yes," he answered, laughing. 

Tuesday, March 8. — I put on my riding-habit, and 
at four o'clock we were at the Porta del Popolo, where 
the Cardinalino was waiting for us with two horses. 
Mamma and Dina followed in a carriage. 

"Let us ride in this direction," said my cavalier. 

"Let us do so." 

And we entered a sort of field — a green and pretty 



1876.1 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 45 

place called La Farnesina. He began his declara- 
tions again, saying: 

" I am in despair." 

"What is despair?" 

"It is when a man desires a thing and cannot have it." 

"You desire the moon?" 

"No, the sun." 

"Where is it?" I said, looking around the horizon. 
"It has set, I think." 

"No, it is shining upon me now; you are it." 

"Bah! bah!" 

"I have never loved before, I hate women " 

"And as soon as you saw me you loved me?" 

"Yes, that very instant — the first evening I saw 
you, at the opera." 

"You told me that was over." 

"I was jesting." 

"How can I tell when you are jesting, and when 
you are in earnest?" 

"That is easy to be seen." 

"True; one can almost always tell when a person 
is speaking the truth, but you inspire me with no 
confidence, and your fine ideas regarding love with 
still less." 

"What are my ideas? I love you and you will not 
believe it. Ah," said he, biting his lips, and giving 
me a sidelong glance, "then I am nothing, I can do 
nothing." 

"Yes, play the hypocrite," said I, laughing. 

"The hypocrite!" he cried, growing furious. "Al- 
ways the hypocrite; that is what you think of 
me!" 

"How can one help admiring you?" he said, looking 
at me fixedly, a little further on; "You are beautiful, 
only I think you have no heart." 

"On the contrary, I assure you I have an excellent 
heart." 



46 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

"You have an excellent heart, and you don't want 
to fall in love." 

"That depends." 

"You are a spoiled child; am I not right?" 

"Why should I not be spoiled? I am not ignorant; 
I am good; the only thing I have is a bad temper." 

"I have a bad temper, too; I am passionate; I 
can get furiously angry; I want to correct these faults. 
— Shall we jump that ditch?" 

"No." 

And I rode across the little bridge, while he jumped 
the ditch. 

"Let us follow the carriage at a trot," he said, 
"we are now on level ground." 

I put my horse to a trot, but a few paces from 
the carriage he began to gallop. I turned to the right. 

A followed me, my horse galloping rapidly. I 

tried to hold him in, but he dashed forward madly; I 
had lost control of him; there was an open space in 
front; my hair fell down on my shoulders, my hat 

dropped on the ground. I could hear A behind 

me; I felt what they must be suffering in the carriage. 
I wanted to jump, but the horse flew like an arrow. 
"It is stupid to be killed in this way," I thought — 
I had no longer any strength — "They must save me!" 

"Hold him in!" cried A who could not catch 

up with me. 

"I cannot," I answered in a low voice. 

My arms trembled; an instant more and I should 
have lost consciousness; just then he came close to 
me and gave my horse a blow across the head with 
his whip; I seized his arm, as much to touch him as 
to stop myself. 

I looked at him; he was pale as death; never had 
I seen a countenance so full of emotion ! 

"God!" he said, "how you have made me suffer!" 

"Ah, yes, but for you I should have fallen; I could 



x876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 47 

hold the reins no longer. Now it is over — well, that 
is good," I added, trying to laugh. "Let seme one 
give me my hat!" 

Dina had got out of the carriage, which we now 
approached. Mamma was beside herself with terror, 
but she said nothing to me. She knew that some- 
thing was the matter, and did not wish to annoy me. 

"We will return slowly, to the Porta del Popolo," 
he said. 

"Yes, yes!" 

"How you frightened me! And you — were you not 
afraid?" 

"No, I assure you, not?" 

"Oh, but you were — I could see it." 

"It was nothing — nothing at all." 

And in a second more we were declining the verb 
"to love," in all its moods and tenses; he told me 
everything, from the first evening he had seen me at 
the opera, when, observing Rossi leaving our box, 
he left his own to go meet him. 

When we returned home I took off my habit, threw 
on a wrapper, and lay down on the sofa, tired, charmed, 
confused. I could remember nothing clearly at first, 
of all that had taken place; it took me a couple of 
hours to get together what you have just read. I 
should be at the height of joy if I believed him, but 
notwithstanding his air of sincerity, of candor even, 
I doubt him. This is what it is to be "canaille" 
one's-self. And besides it is better that it should 
be so. 

Tuesday, March 14. — . . . To-day we leave the H6tel 
de Londres; we have taken a large and handsome 
apartment on the first floor, in the H6tel della via 
Babuina — consisting of an ante-chamber, a large draw- 
ing-room, a small drawing-room, four bed-rooms, a 
studio, and servants' rooms. 



48 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

Saturday, March 18. — I have never yet had a mo- 
ment's tete-a-tete with Pietro A ; this vexes me. I 

love to hear him tell me that he loves me. When he has 
told it to me over and over again, I rest my elbows 
on the table and think with my head between my 
hands. Perhaps I am in love with him. It is when 
I am tired and half-asleep that I think I love Pietro. 
Why am I vain? Why am I ambitious? Why do 
I reason coldly about my emotions? I cannot make 
up my mind to sacrifice to a moment's happiness whole 
years of greatness and satisfied ambition. 

"Yes," say the romance-writers, "but that moment's 
happiness is sufficient to brighten by its splendor an 
entire lifetime." Oh, no; to-day I am cold, and in 
love; to-morrow I shall be warm, and in love no 
longer. See on what changes of temperature the 
destinies of men depend. 

When he was going A kept my hand in his 

while he said good-night, and asked me a dozen ques- 
tions, afterward, to defer the moment of our parting. 

I told all this immediately to mamma. I tell her 
everything. 

Friday, March 24; Saturday, March 25. — A came 

a quarter of an hour earlier than usual to-day; he 
looked pale, interesting, sorrowful, and calm. When 
Fortime announced him, I encased myself at once 
in an armor of cold politeness in order to enrage 
him. 

I let him spend ten minutes with mamma before 
going in. Poor fellow! he is jealous of Plowden! 
What an ugly thing it is to be in love ! 

"I had sworn not to come again to see you," he 
said. 

"Why have you come, then?" 

"I thought it would be rude to your mother, who 
is so kind to me, if I stayed away." 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASRK1RTSEFF. 49 

"If that is the reason, you may go away now, and 
not come back again. Good-by." 

"No, no, no, it is on your account." 

"Well, that is different/' 

"Mademoiselle, I have committed a great mis- 
take," he said, "and I know it." 

"What mistake?" 

"That of giving you to understand — of telling 
you " 

"What?" 

"That I love you," he said, with a contraction of 
the lips, as if he found it hard to keep from crying. 

"That was not a mistake." 

"It was a great — a very great— mistake; because 
you play with me as if I were a ball or a doll." 

"What an idea!" 

"Oh, I am well aware that that is your character. 
You love to amuse yourself; well, then, amuse yourself; 
it is my own fault." 

"Let us amuse ourselves together." 

"Then it was not to dismiss me that you told me 
at the theater to leave you?" 

"No." 

"It was not to get rid of me?" 

"I have no need to make use of a stratagem, Mon- 
sieur, when I want to get rid of any one. I do it 
quite simply, as I did with B ." 

"Ah, you told me that was not true." 

"Let us speak of something else." 

He rested his cheek against my hand. 

"Do you love me?" he asked. 

"No, not the least bit in the world." 

Ke did not believe a word of it. At this moment 
Dina and mamma entered the room, and at the end of 
a few minutes he left. 

Monday, March 27. — In the evening we had visitors, 



50 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

among others A . I think he has spoken to his 

father, and that his communication has not been well 
received. I cannot decide upon anything. I am en- 
tirely ignorant of the condition of affairs, and I would 
not for anything in the world consent to go live in 
another family. Am I not extremely sensible for a 
girl of my age? 

"I will follow you wherever you go," he said to me 
the other evening. 

"Come to Nice," I said to him to-day. He re- 
mained with bent head, without answering, which 
proves to me that he has spoken to his father. I do 
not understand it; I love him and I do not love him. 

Thursday, March 30. — To-day Visconti spoke to 
mamma about A 's attentions. 

"Pietro A is a charming young man," he ended, 

"and will be very rich, but the Pope interferes in all 

the affairs of the A 's, and the Pope will make 

difficulties." 

"But why do you say all that?" mamma answered; 
"there is no question of marriage. I love the young 
man like a son, but not as a future son-in-law." 

It would be well to leave Rome, the more so as 
nothing will be lost by putting off the matter till 
next winter. . . . 

What irritates me is that the opposition does not 

come from our side but from the side of the A *s. 

This is hateful, and my pride revolts against it. 
j We must leave Rome. 

In the evening Pietro A came. We received 

him very coldly in consequence of the Baron Visconti's 
words, and our own suspicions; for, except the words 
of Visconti, all the rest is only suspicion. 
- "To-morrow," said Pietro, after a few moments, "I 
leave Rome." 

"And where are you going?" I asked. 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 51 

"To Terracina. I shall remain there a week, I 
think." 

"They are sending him away," said mamma to me 
in Russian. 

I had said the same thing to myself, but what a 
humiliation ! I was ready to cry with rage. 

"Yes, it is disagreeable," I replied in the same 
language. 

When we were alone I attacked the question bravely, 
though with some nervousness. 

"Why are you leaving Rome? Where are you 
going?" 

Well, if you think he answered those questions as 
plainly as I put them, you are mistaken. 

I continued to question him, and he evaded answering. 

... I wanted to know all, at any cost. This state 
of disquiet and suspicion made me too miserable. 

"Well, monsieur," I said, "you wish me to love a 
man of whom I know nothing, who conceals everything 
from me! Speak, and I will believe you! Speak, and 
I promise to give you an answer. Listen well to what 
I say: after you have spoken, I promise to give you 
an answer." 

"But you will laugh at me, mademoiselle, if I tell 
you. It is so great a secret that if I tell it to you 
there will be nothing left for me to conceal. There are 
things that one can tell no one." 

"Speak, I am waiting." 

"I will tell it to you, but you will laugh at me." 

"I swear to you I will not." 

After many promises not to laugh, and not to betray 
it to any one, he at last told me the secret. 

It seems that last year, when he was a soldier at 
Vicenza, he contracted debts to the amount of thirty- 
four thousand francs. When he returned home ten 
months later he had a quarrel with his father, who 
refused to pay them. At last, a few days ago, he 



52 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. (1876. 

pretended he was going to leave the house, saying that 
he was badly treated at home. Then his mother 
told him that his father would pay his debts, on con- 
dition that he would promise to lead a sensible life. 
"And to begin," she said, "and before being recon- 
ciled with your parents, you must be reconciled with 
God." He had not confessed himself for a long time 
past. 

In short, he is going to retire for a week to the 
convent of San Giovanni and Paolo, Monte Coelio, 
near the Coliseum. 

I found it hard enough to remain serious, I can 
assure you. To us all this seems odd, but it is natural 
enough to the Catholics of Rome. 

This, then, is his secret. . . . 

Next Sunday, at two in the afternoon, I am to be 
in front of the convent, and he will show himself at 
the window, pressing a white handkerchief to his lips. 

After he went away I ran to soothe mamma's 
wounded pride, by telling her all this; but with a 
smile, so as not to appear as if I were in love with him. 

Friday, March 31. — . . . Poor Pietro in a cassock, 
shut up in a cell, with four sermons a day, a mass, 
vespers, matins — I cannot accustom myself to so 
strange an idea. 

My God, do not punish me for my vanity. I swear 
to you that I am good at heart, incapable of cowardice 
or baseness. I am ambitious — that is my greatest 
fault! The beauties and the ruins of Rome make me 
dizzy. I should like to be Caesar, Augustus, Marcus 
Aurelius, Nero, Caracalla, Satan, the Pope! I should 
like to be all these — and I am nothing. 

But I am always myself; you may convince your- 
self of that by reading my diary. The details and 
the shading of the picture change, but the outlines are 
always the same. 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 53 

Wednesday, April 5. — . . . I paint and I read, but 
that is not enough. For a vain creature like me it 
is best to devote one's-self entirely to painting, because 
that is imperishable. 

I shall be neither a poet nor a philosopher, nor a 
savante. I can be nothing more than a singer and a 
painter. But that is always something. And then I 
want to be talked of by everybody, which is the 
principal thing. Stern moralists, do not shrug your 
shoulders and censure me with an affected indifference 
lor worldly things because I speak in this way. If 
you were more just you would confess that you your- 
selves are the same at heart! You take very good 
care not to let it be seen, but that does not prevent 
you from knowing in your inmost souls that I speak 
the truth. 

Vanity! Vanity! Vanity! 

The beginning and the end of all things, and the 
eternal and sole cause of all things. That which does 
not spring from vanity springs from passion. Vanity 
and passion are the sole masters of the world. 

Friday, April 7. — I live in torture! Oh, how 
expressive is the Russian saying, "To have a 
cat in one's heart"! I have a cat hidden in 
my heart. It makes me suffer incredibly to think 
it possible that a man I care for should not love 
me. 

Pietro has not come; he left the convent only this 
evening. I saw his clerical and hypocritical brother, 

Paul A , to-day. There is a creature to be crushed 

under foot — little, black, sallow, vile, hypocritical 
Jesuit ! 

If the affair of the monastery be true he must know 
of it, and how he must laugh with his mean, cunning 
air as he relates it to his friends! Pietro and Paul 
cannot abide each other. 



54 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

Sunday, April 9. — I have been to confession and 
received absolution, and now I fly into a passion and 
swear. A certain amount of sin is as necessary to a 
man's existence as a certain volume of air is to sus- 
tain life. Why are men attached to this earth? Be- 
cause the weight of their conscience drags them down. 
If their conscience were pure, men would be too light, 
to keep their footing on this planet, and would soar up 
to the skies like little red balloons. 

There is a fantastic theory for you! No matter! 

And Pietro does not come. 

Monday, April 10. — They have shut him up forever. 
No, only for the time I am to remain in Rome. 

To-morrow I go to Naples; they cannot have fore- 
seen this trick. Besides, once he is released, he will 
come in search of me. . . . 

I don't know whether to think him a worthless 
fellow, a coward, or a child whom they tyrannize over. 
I am quite calm, but sad. It is only necessary to look 
at things from a certain point of view, mamma says, 
in order to see that nothing in the world is of any 
consequence. I am in complete accord with madame, 
myjmother, as to this, but to be able to judge what that 
point of view is in the present instance, I must first 
know the exact truth. All that I now know is that 
this is a strange adventure. 

Tuesday, April 18. — At noon to-day we set out for 
Pompeii; we are to make the journey in a carriage, 
as we pass through a beautiful country and can thus 
enjoy the view of Vesuvius and of the cities of Castel- 
lamare and Sorrento. 

I overheard mamma speaking of marriage. 

"Woman is made to suffer," she said, "even if she 
has the best of husbands." 

"Woman before marriage," I said, "is Pompeii 



1876.I JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF, 55 

before the eruption; and woman after marriage is 
Pompeii after the eruption." 
It may be that I am right! 

Wednesday, April 19. — See at what a disadvantage 
I am placed! Pietro, without me, has his club, society, 
his friends — everything, in a word, except me; while I, 
without Pietro, have nothing. 

His love for me is only the occupation of his idle 
moments, while mine for him is everything to me. He 
made me forget my ambition to play an active part 
in the world ; I had ceased to think of it, I thought only 
of him, too happy to escape thus from my anxieties. 
Whatever I may become in the future, I bequeath 
my journal to the world. I offer you here what no 
one has ever yet seen. All the memoirs, the journals, 
the letters, which are given to the public are only 
inventions glossed over, and intended to deceive the 
world. I have no interest in deceiving any one; I 
have neither any political action to gloss over, nor any 
unworthy action to conceal. No one troubles himself 
whether I am in love or not, whether I weep or whether 
I laugh. My chief anxiety is to express myself with 
as much exactness as possible. I do not deceive 
myself in regard to my style or my orthography. I 
can write letters without mistakes, but in this ocean 
of words, doubtless, I make a great many. Besides, 
I am not a Frenchwoman, and I make mistakes in 
French. Yet if you asked me to express myself in 
my own language I should do it still worse, perhaps. 

Rome, Monday, April 24. — I had matter enough to 
keep me writing all day, but I have no longer a clear 
idea of anything. I only know that in the Corso 

we met A , that he ran up to the carriage, radiant 

and joyous; and that he asked if we should be at 
home in the evening. We said we should be, alas ! 



56 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

He came, and I went into the drawing-room, and 
took part in the conversation quite naturally like the 
others. He told me he had remained four days in 
the convent, and that he had then gone to the country; 
that he was at present on good terms with his father 
and mother; and that he was now going to be sensible 
and to think of his future. Finally, he said that I 
had amused myself at Naples; that I had been flirting 
there as usual, and that this showed I did not love 
him. He told me also that he had seen me the other 
Sunday near the Convent San Giovanni and Paolo; 
and to prove that he spoke the truth he told me how 
I was dressed and what I was doing; and I must con- 
fess he was correct. 

"Do you love me?" he asked me at last. 

"And you?" 

"Ah, that is the way with you always; you are 
always laughing at me." 

"And what if I should say that I do?" 

He is altogether changed; in twenty days' time he 
seems to have become a man of thirty. He speaks 
quite differently; he has become surprisingly sensible, 
and has grown as diplomatic as a Jesuit. 

"You know I play the hypocrite," he said; "I bow 
down before my father, I agree to everything he wishes; 
I have grown very sensible, and I think of my 
future." 

Perhaps I shall be able to write more to-morrow; 
to-night I am so stupid that I cannot. 

Tuesday, April 25. — "I will come to-morrow," he 
said, to quiet me, "and we will talk over all this 
seriously." 

"It is useless," I said. "I see now how much I 
can depend upon your fine professions of love. You 
need not come back," I added more faintly. "You 
have vexed me; I bid you good-by in anger, and I 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 57 

shall not sleep to-night. You may boast of having 
put me in a rage — go!" 

"But, mademoiselle, how unjust you are! To- 
morrow I will speak with you when you are 
calmer." 

It is he who complains; it is he who says I have 
always repulsed him; that I have always laughed at 
him; that I have never loved him. In his place I 
should have said the same; nevertheless, I find him 
very dignified and very self-possessed for a man who 
is really in love. I know how to love better than 
that ; at any rate I am furious, furious, furious ! 

It was still raining when the Baron Visconti — who, 
notwithstanding his age, is both charming and spirituel 
— was announced. Suddenly, while discussing the 
Odescalchi marriage, the conversation turned on 
Pietro. 

"Well, madame, the boy, as you call him, is not 
a parti to be despised," he said, "for the poor Cardinal 
may die at any moment, so that one of these days 
his nephews will be millionnaires, and Pietro, conse- 
quently, a millionnaire." 

\ "Do you know, Baron, they tell me the young man 
is going to enter the monastery," said mamma. 

"Oh, no, indeed, I assure you; he is thinking of 
something altogether different." 

Then the talk turned on Rome, and I observed that 
I should be sorry to leave it. 

"Remain here, then," said the Baron. 

"I should like very much to do so." 

"I am glad to see that you are fond of our city." 

"Do you know," I said, "that they are going to 
leave me here in a convent?" 

"Oh," said Visconti; "I hope you will stay here 
for another reason than that. We shall find the 
means, — I will find them," he said, pressing my hand 
warmly. 



58 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

Mamma was radiant, — I was radiant; it was quite 
an aurora borealis. 

This evening, contrary to our expectations, we had 
a great many visitors, among them A . 

Our visitors were seated at one table; Pietro and 
I at another. We talked of love in general, and Pietro's 
love in particular. His principles are deplorable, or 
rather he is so crazy that he has none. He spoke 
so lightly of his love for me that I don't know what 
to think. And then his character is wonderfully like 
my own. 

I don't know how it was, but at the end of five 
minutes we were good friends again; everything was 
explained and we agreed to marry; he did, at least; 
I remained silent for the most part. 

"You leave Rome on Thursday?" he said. 

"Yes, and you will forget me." 

"Ah, no, indeed; I am going to Nice." 

"When?" 

"As soon as I can; for the present I cannot." 

* ' Why not ? Tell me,— tell me this instant ! ' ' 

"My father will not allow it." 

"You have only to tell him the truth." 

"Of course I shall tell him that I go there on your 
account, that I love you, and that I wish to marry 
you — but not yet. You do not know my father. 
He has only just forgiven me; I dare not ask any- 
thing more from him for the present." 

"Speak to him to-morrow." 

"I dare not; I have not yet gained his confidence. 
Only think, he had not spoken to me for three years; 
we had ceased to speak to each other. In a month 
I will be at Nice." 

"In a month I shall be no longer there." 

"And where shall you go?" 

"To Russia. I shall go away and you will for- 
get me." 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 59 

"But I shall be at Nice in a fortnight, and then — 
and then we will go away together. I love you, I 
love you," he ended, falling on his knees. 

"Are you happy?" I asked, pressing his head be- 
tween my hands. 

"Oh, yes, because I believe in you — I believe your 
word." 

"Come to Nice, now," I said. 

"Ah, if I could!" 

"What one wants to do, one can do." 

Thursday, April 27. — . . . At the railway station I 
walked up and down the platform with the Cardinalino. 

"I love you," he cried, "and I shall always love 
you to my misfortune, it may be." 

"And you can see me go away with indifference." 

"Oh, don't say that. You must not speak so; 
you do not know what I have suffered. Since I 
have known you I am completely changed; but you, 
you always treat me as if I were the most despicable 
of men. For you I have broken with the past; for 
you I have endured everything; for you I have made 
this peace with my family. . . . Will you write to me?" 

"Don't ask too much," I said gravely. "It is a 
great favor if a young girl permits herself to be written 
to. If you don't know that, I shall teach it to you. 
But they are entering the car. Let us not lose time 
in useless discussion. Will you write to me?" 

"Yes, and all that you can say is of no avail. I 
feel that I love you as I can never love again. Do 
you love me?" 

I nodded affirmatively. 

"Will you always love me?" 

The same sign. 

"Good-by, then." 

"Till when?" 

"Till next year." 



60 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

"No!" 

"Come, come, good-by." 

And without giving him my hand I went into the 
railway coach where our people were already seated. 

"You have not shaken hands with me," he said, 
approaching the car. 

I gave him my hand. 

"I love you!" he said, very pale. 

"Au revoir" I answered softly. 

"Think of me sometimes," he said, growing still 
paler; "as for me, I shall do nothing else but think 
of you." 

"Yes; au revoir.'" 

The train started, and for a few seconds I could 
still see him looking after me with an expression of 
deep emotion on his countenance; then he walked a 
few steps toward the door, but as the train was still in 
view, he stopped again, mechanically crushed his hat 
down over his eyes, took a few steps forward, and 
then — then we were already out of sight. 

Nice, Friday, April 28. — . . . The house is charm- 
ingly furnished; my room is dazzling, all upholstered 
in sky-blue satin. On opening the window of the 
balcony and looking out on our pretty little garden, 
the Promenade, and the sea, I could not help saying 
aloud : 

"They may say what they will, but there is no 
place at once so charmingly home-like and so adorably 
romantic as Nice." 

Sunday, May 7. — One finds a certain miserable sat- 
isfaction in having cause to despise everybody. At 
least one no longer cherishes illusions. If Pietro has 
forgotten me, I have been grossly insulted, and there 
is another name to inscribe on the list of those to 
whom I owe hatred and revenge. 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 61 

Such as they are, I am satisfied with my fellow- 
beings and I like them; my interests are the same as 
theirs; I live among them, and on them depend my 
fortune and my happiness. All this is stupid enough. 
But in this world what is not stupid is sad, and what 
is not sad is stupid. 

To-morrow at three o'clock I start for Rome, to 

enjoy the gayeties there, as well as to show A 

my contempt for him if the occasion should present 
itself. 

Rome, Thursday, May n. — . . . I left Nice yester- 
day at two o'clock, with my aunt. . . . We arrived 
here at two. I took my aunt to the Corso. (What a 
delightful thing it is to see the Corso again after 
Nice!) Simonetti came over to us. I presented him 
to Mme. Romanoff, and told him it was by a mirac- 
ulous chance I was in Rome. 

I made a sign to Pietro to come to us ; he was radiant, 
and looked at me with a glance that shows he has taken 
everything seriously. 

He made us laugh a great deal telling us about 
his sojourn in the monastery. He had consented, he 
said, to go there for four days, and they kept him 
for seventeen. 

' ' Why did you tell me a falsehood ? " I asked. ■ ' Why 
did you say you were going to Terracina?" 

"Because I was ashamed to tell you the truth." 

"And do your friends at the club know of it?" 

"Yes; at first I said I had gone to Terracina; 
then they asked me about the monastery, and I ended 
by telling them all about it; I laughed, and everybody 
laughed. Only Torlonia was furious." 

"Why?" 

"Because I did not tell him the truth at first; be- 
cause I had not confidence in him." 

Then he told us how, in order to please his father 



62 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

he had let a rosary fall, as if by chance, out of his 
pocket, so that it might be thought he always carried 
one. I said all sorts of mocking and impertinent 
things to him, to all of which he responded, I must say, 
with a good deal of spirit. 

Saturday, May 13. — I feel unable to write to-night, 
and something compels me to write. So long as I 
leave anything unsaid, something within torments 
me. 

I chatted and made tea to the best of my ability 
till half-past ten. Then Pietro arrived. Simonetti 
went away soon afterward, and we three were left 
alone. The talk turned on my diary, that is to say, 

on the questions I have touched on in it, and A 

asked me to read him some extracts from it on God 
and the soul. I went to the antechamber, and knelt 
down beside the famous white box to look up the 
passages while Pietro held the light. But in doing 
so I came across others of more general interest, and 
read them aloud. And this lasted almost half an 

hour. On returning to the drawing-room A began 

to tell us all sorts of anecdotes of his past life, from 
the time he was eighteen. I listened to everything 
he said with something like jealousy and terror. 

In the first place, his absolute dependence upon his 
family freezes my blood. If they were to forbid him 
to love me, I am certain he would obey. 

The thought of the priests, the monks, terrifies me, 
notwithstanding all he has told me of their piety. 
It frightens me to hear of the atrocities they per- 
petrate, of their tyranny. 

Yes, they make me afraid, and his two brothers also, 
but this is not what most troubles me; I am free 
to accept or to refuse him. All I heard to-night and 
the conclusions I drew from it, taken in connection 
with what has passed between us, confuse my mind. 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 63 

Wednesday, May 17. — I had much to write about 
yesterday but it was nothing compared to what I 
have to write about to-night. He spoke to me again 
of his love. I told him it was useless; that my family 
would never consent. 

"They would be right in not doing so," he said 
thoughtfully. "I could not make any woman happy. 
I have told my mother everything; I spoke to her 
about you. I said, 'She is so good and so religious, 
while as for me I believe in nothing, I am only a 
miserable creature.' See, I remained seventeen days 
in the monastery, I prayed, I meditated, and I do not 
believe in God; religion does not exist for me, I be- 
lieve in nothing." 

I looked at him in terror. 

"You must believe," I said, taking his hand in 
mine; "you must correct your faults; you must be 
good." 

"That is impossible; and as I am no one could 
love me. Am I not right? I am very unhappy," 
he continued: "you could never form an idea of 
my position. I am apparently on good terms with 
my family, but only apparently. I detest them all 
— my father, my brothers, my mother herself. I am 
unhappy; if you ask my why, I cannot tell you. 
I do not know. Oh, the priests!" he cried clenching 
his fists and grinding his teeth as he raised to heaven 
a face hideous with hatred. "The priests! oh, if 
you knew what they were!" 

It was fully five minutes before he grew calm. 

"O I love you, however, and you only. When I 
am with you I am happy," he said at last. 

"Give me the proof." 

"Speak." 

"Give me the proof." 

"Speak." 

"Come to Nice." 



64 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

"You put me out of my senses when you say that; 
you know that I cannot go." 

"Why not?" 

"Because my father will not give me the money; 
because my father does not wish me to go to Nice." 

"I understand that very well, but if you tell him 
why you wish to go?" 

"He would still refuse his consent; I have spoken 
to my mother; she does not believe me. They are 
so accustomed to see me behave badly that they no 
longer believe in me." 

"You must reform; you must come to Nice." 

"But you have told me that I shall be refused." 

"I have not said you would be refused by me." 

"Ah, that would be too much happiness," he said, 
looking at me intently. "That would be a dream." 

"But a beautiful dream; is it not so?" 

"Ah, yes!" 

"Then you will ask your father to let you go?" 

"Yes, certainly; but he does not wish me to marry." 

"All is ended, then," I said, drawing back. "Fare- 
well!" 

"I love you!" 

"I believe you," I said, pressing both his hands 
in mine, "and I pity you." 

"You will never love me?" 

"When you are free." 

"When I am dead." 

"I cannot love you at present, for I pity you, and 
I despise you. If they commanded you not to love 
me, you would obey." 

"Perhaps!" 

"That is frightful!" 

"I love you," he repeated for the hundredth time, 
and he went away, his eyes filled with tears. 

He came back once more and I bade him farewell. 

"No, not farewell. " d 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 65 

"Yes, yes, yes, farewell. I loved you until this 
conversation." (1881. — I never loved him; all this was 
but the effect of an excited imagination in search of 
romance.) 

For the past three days I have had a new idea — it 
is that I am going to die. I cough and complain. The 
day before yesterday I was sitting in the drawing-room 
at two o'clock in the morning; my aunt urged me to 
retire, but I paid no heed to her; I said I was con- 
vinced that I was going to die. 

"Ah," said my aunt, "from the way in which you 
behave I don't doubt but that you will die." 

"So much the better for you; you will have less 
to spend; you will not have to pay so much to La- 
ferriere!" 

And, seized with a fit of coughing, I threw myself 
face downward on the sofa, to the terror of my aunt, 
who left the room so as to make it appear that she 
was angry. 

Friday, May 19. — . . . I have just been singing, 
and my chest pains me; here you see me playing the 
role of martyr! It is too stupid! My hair is dressed 
in the fashion of the Capitoline Venus : I am in white, 
like a Beatrice; and I have a rosary with a mother-of- 
pearl cross around my neck. Say what you will, 
there is in man a certain leaning toward idolatry — 
a necessity for experiencing physical sensations. God, 
in His simple grandeur, is not enough. One must 
have images to look at and crosses to kiss. Last 
night I counted the beads on the rosary; there were 
sixty, and I prostrated myself sixty times on the 
ground, touching the floor with my forehead each 
time I did so. I was quite out of breath when it 
was over, but I thought I had performed an act agree- 
able in the sight of God. It was no doubt absurd, 
but the intention was there. Does God take inten- 



66 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

tions into account? Ah, but I have here the New 
Testament. Let me see. — As I could not find the 
good book I read Dumas instead. It is not quite the 
same thing. 

When Count A was announced this evening I 

was alone. . . . My heart beat so violently that I 
was afraid it would be heard, as they say in novels. 

He seated himself beside me and tried to take my 
hand, which I withdrew immediately. 

"I have so many things to say to you," he began. 

"Indeed?" . . . 

"But serious things." 

"Let us hear them." . . . 

"Listen: I have spoken to my mother, and my 
mother has spoken to my father." 

"Well?" 

"I have done right, have I not?" 

"That does not concern me; whatever you have 
done you have done to please yourself." 

"You no longer love me?" he asked. 

"No." 

"And I, I love you madly." 

"So much the worse for you," I said, smiling, and 
allowing him to take my hands in his. 

"No, listen," he said, "let us speak seriously; you 
are never serious; I love you, I have spoken to my 
mother. Be my wife ! " 

"At last!" I thought to myself. But I remained 
silent. 

"Well?" he said. 

"Well," I answered, smiling. 

"You know," he said, encouraged by this, "it is 
necessary to take some one into our confidence." 

"What do you mean?" 

"This: I can do nothing myself. We must find 
some one who will undertake the affair — some one of 
respectability who is serious and dignified, who will 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 67 

speak to my father and arrange the whole matter, in 
short . But whom ? ' ' 

"Visconti," I said, laughing. 

"Yes," he replied very seriously, "I had thought of 
Visconti; he is the man we need. . . . Only," he re- 
sumed, "I am not rich — not at all rich. Ah, I wish 
I were a hump-back and had millions.' 

"You would gain nothing in my eyes by that." 

"Oh! oh! oh!" he exclaimed incredulously. 

"I believe you wish to insult me," I said, rising. 

"No, I don't say that on your account; you are 
an exception to women." 

"Then don't speak to me of money." 

"Heavens, what a creature you are! One can 
never understand what you want. Consent — con- 
sent to be my wife!" 

He wished to kiss my hand; I held the cross of 
the rosary before him, which he kissed instead; then 
raising his head: 

"How religious you are!" he said, looking at me. 

"And you, you believe in nothing?" 

"I? I love you; do you love me?" 

"I don't say those things." 

"Then, for Heaven's sake, give me to understand 
it, at least. 

After a moment's hesitation, I gave him my hand. 

"You consent?" 

"Not too fast!" I said, rising; "you know there 
are my father and my grandfather, and they will 
strongly oppose my marrying a Catholic." * 

"Ah, there is that, too!" 

"Yes, there is that, too." 

He took me by the arm and made me stand beside 
him before the glass; we looked very handsome 
Standing thus together. 

"We will give it in charge to Visconti," said A . 

* Marie belonged to the Greek Church, of Russia. 



68 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

"Yes." 

"He is the man we need. . . . But we are both 
so young to marry; do you think we shall be happy?" 

"You must first get my consent." 

"Of course. Well, then if you consent, shall we be 
happy?" 

"J/ I consent, I can swear to you by my head, 
that there will be no happier man in the world than 
you." 

"Then let us be married. Be my wife." 

I smiled. . . . 

At this moment voices were heard on the staircase, 
and I sat down quietly to wait for my aunt, who 
soon entered. 

A great weight was lifted from my heart. . . . 

At twelve A rose, and bade me good-night, 

with a warm pressure of the hand. 

"Good-night," I answered. 

Our glances met, I cannot tell how, it was like a 
flash of lightning. 

"Well, aunt," I said, after he had gone, "we leave 
early to-morrow. Go to your room, and I will lock 
your door, so that I need not disturb you by my 
writing, and I will soon go to bed. 

"You promise?" 

"Certainly." 

I locked my aunt's door, and after a glance at the 
mirror went downstairs, and Pietro glided like a 
shadow through the half -open door. 

"So much may be said without words when one is 
in love. As for me, at least I love you," he murmured. 

I amused myself by imagining this to be a scene 
from a novel, and thought involuntarily of the novels 
of Dumas. 

"I leave to-morrow," I said, "and we have so 
many things to talk seriously about, which I had 
forgotten." 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 69 

"That is because you no longer think of anything." 

"Come," I said, partly closing the door, so that 
only a ray of light could pass through. 

And I sat down on the lowest step of the little stairs 
at the end of the passage. 

He knelt down by my side. 

I fancied at every moment that I heard some one 
coming. I remained motionless, and trembled at 
every drop of rain that fell on the flags. 

"It is nothing," said my impatient lover. 

"It is very easy for you to say that, monsieur. If 
any one should come, it would only flatter your vanity, 
and I — should be lost." 

With head thrown back I looked at him through 
my half -closed lids. 

"Through me?" he said, misunderstanding the 
meaning of my words. "I love you too much; you 
are safe with me." 

I gave him my hands, on hearing these noble words. 

"Have I not always shown my consideration and 
respect for you?" he said. 

"Oh, no; not always. Once you even wanted to 
kiss me." 

"Don't speak of that, I entreat you. I have begged 
your forgiveness for it so often. Be good and for- 
give me." 

"I have forgiven you," I said softly. 

I felt so happy! Is this what it is to be in love, 
I thought? Is it serious? I thought every moment 
he was going to laugh, he looked so grave and tender. 

I lowered my glance before the extraordinary in- 
tensity of his. 

"But see, we have again forgotten our affairs. Let 
us be serious, and talk of them." 

"Yes, let us talk of them." 

"In the first place, what are we to do if you go 
away to-morrow ? Stay ! I entreat you, stay ! ' ' 



70 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 
4 ' Impossible ; my aunt ' ' 



"She is so good! Oh, stay!" 

"She is good, but she will not consent to that. 
Good-by, then, perhaps forever !" 

"No, no; you have consented to be my wife!" 

"When?" 

"Toward the end of the month I will be at Nice. 
If you consent to my borrowing, I will go to-morrow." 

"No, I will not have that; I would never see you 
again in that case." . . . 

"Advise me; you, who reason like a book, advise 
me what to do." 

"Pray to God," I said, holding my cross before 
him; ready to laugh if he ridiculed my advice, or to 
maintain my air of gravity if he took it seriously. 
He saw my impassive countenance, pressed the cross 
against his forehead, and bent his head in prayer. 

"I have prayed," he said. 

"Truly?" 

"Truly. But let us continue. We will entrust the 
whole affair to Baron Visconti then." 

"Very well." 

I said "Very well," and thought, "provisionally." 

"But all that cannot be done immediately," I 
resumed. 

"In two months." 

"Are you jesting?" I asked, as if what he suggested 
were the most impossible thing in the world. 

"In six months, then?" 

"No." 

"In a year." 

"Yes, in a year; will you wait?" 

"If I must — on condition that I shall see you every 
day." 

"Come to Nice, for in a month I go to Russia." 

"I will follow you." 

"You cannot," 



1876.3 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 71 

"And why not? " 

"My mother would not allow it." 

"No one can prevent my traveling." 

"Don't say stupid things." 

"Oh, how I love you!" 

I leaned toward him so as not to lose a single one 
of his words. 

"I shall always love you," he said. "Be my wife. 
... He proposed that we should confide all our secrets 
to each other. 

"Oh, as to yours, monsieur, they do not interest me." 

"Tell me, mademoiselle," he said, "how many times 
have you been in love?" 

"Once." 

"And with whom?" 

"With a man I do not know, whom I saw ten or 
twelve times in the street, and who is not even aware 
of my existence. I was twelve years old at the time, 
and I had never spoken to him." 

"What you tell me is like a novel." 

"It is the truth." 

"But this is a romance, a fantastic tale. Such a 
feeling would be impossible; it would be like loving a 
shadow." 

"Yes, but I feel that I have no cause to blush for 
having loved him, and he has become for me a sort of 
divinity. I compare him to no one in my thoughts, 
and there is no one worthy of being compared to 
him." 

"Where is he?" 

"I do not even know. He is married and lives far 
away." 

"What an absurdity!" 

And my good Pietro looked somewhat disdainful 
and incredulous. 

"But it is true; I love you now, but the feeling is 
an entirely different one." 



72 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

"I give you the whole of my heart," he answered, 
"and you give me only the half of yours." 

"Do not ask for too much, and be satisfied with 
what you have." 

"But that is not all? There is something else?" 

"That is all." 

"Forgive me, and allow me to disbelieve you for 
this once." 

(See what depravity !) 

"You must believe the truth." 

"I cannot." 

"So much the worse," I cried, vexed. 

"That is beyond my understanding," he said. 

"That is because you are very wicked ." 

"Perhaps." 

"You do not believe that I have never allowed 
any one to kiss my hand.?" 

"Pardon me, but I do not believe it." 

"Sit down here beside me," I said, "let us talk 
over our affairs, and tell me everything." . . . 

"You will not be angry?" he asked. 

"I shall be angry only if you conceal anything from 
me." 

"Very well, then; you understand that our family 
is very well known here?" 

"Yes." 

"And that you are strangers in Rome?" 

"Well?" 

"Well, my mother has written to some persons in 
Paris." 

"That is very natural; and what do they say of 
me?" 

"Nothing, as yet, but they may say what they 
choose, I shall always love you." 

"I stand in no need of your indulgence " 

"Then," he said, "there is the religion." 

"Oh, the religion." 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 73 

"Ah," he said, with the calmest air imaginable, 
"become a Catholic." 

I cut him short with a very severe expression .^ 

"Do you wish me, then, to change my religion?" 
asked A . 

"No, because if you did so, I should despise you," 
To tell the truth it would have displeased me only 
on account of the Cardinal. 

"How I love you! How beautiful you are! How 
happy we shall be!" 

My only answer was to take his head between my 
hands and kiss him on the forehead, the eyes, the 
hair. I did it rather on his account than my 
own. 

"Marie! Marie!" cried my aunt from above. 

"What is the matter?" I asked quietly, putting my 
head through the door at the head of the stairs, that 
the voice might seem to come from my room. 

"You should go to sleep; it is two o'clock." 

"I am asleep." 

1 ' Are you undressed ? " 

"Yes, let me write." 

"Go to bed." 

"Yes, yes." 

I went down again and found the place empty; 
the poor fellow had hidden himself under the staircase. 

"Now," said he, resuming his place, "let us speak 
of the future." 

"Yes, let us speak of it." 

"Where shall we live? Do you like Rome?" 

"Yes." 

"Then we will live in Rome, but by ourselves — not 
with my family." 

"No, indeed; in the first place, mamma would 
never consent to let me live with the family of my 
husband." 

"She would be right; and then, my family have 



74 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

such extraordinary ideas! It would be torture. We 
will buy a little house in the new quarter." 

"I should prefer a large one." 

"Very well, then, a large one." 

And we began — he, at least — to make plans for 
the future. 

"We will go into society," I resumed; "we will 
keep up a large establishment, shall we not?" 

"Oh, yes; tell me all you would like." 

"Yes, when people decide to spend their lives to- 
gether, they want to do so as comfortably as 
possible." 

1 ' I understand that. You know all about my family ; 
but there is the Cardinal." 

"You must make your peace with him." 

"Of course; I shall do so decidedly. The only 
thing is that I am not rich." 

"No matter," I answered, a little displeased, but 
sufficiently mistress of myself to refrain from making 
a gesture of contempt ; this was perhaps a trap. . . . 

No, this cannot be true love; in true love there 
is no room for meanness or vulgarity. 

I felt secretly dissatisfied. . . . 

Do I love him truly, or is it only that he has turned 
my head? Who can tell? From the moment doubt 
exists, however, there is no longer room for doubt. 

"Yes, I love you," I said, taking his hands in mine 
and pressing them tightly. 

He did not answer; perhaps he did not understand 
the importance I attached to my words; perhaps he 
found them quite natural. 

But I began to be afraid, and I told him he must 
go. "It is time," I said. 

"Already? Stay with me a moment longer. How 
happy we are together! Dost thou love me?" he 
cried. "Wilt thou love me always, always?" 

This thou chilled me and made me feel humiliated. 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSLFF. 75 

"Always!" I answered, still dissatisfied, "always; 
and you, do you love me?" 

%< Oh, how can you ask me such things? Oh, my 
darling, I should like to remain here forever!" 

"We should die of hunger," I replied, humiliated 
by this term of endearment, and not knowing what 
to say. 

"But what a beautiful death! — In a year, then," 
he said, devouring me with his eyes. 

"In a year," I repeated, for form's sake rather than 
for any other reason. 

At this moment I heard the voice of my aunt, who, 
seeing light still in my room, began to grow im- 
patient. 

"Do you hear?" I said. 

We kissed each other and I fled, without once 
turning back. It is like a scene out of a novel, that 
I have read somewhere. I feel humiliated. I am 
angry with myself! Shall I always be my own critic, 
or is it because I do not entirely love him that I feel 
thus? 

"It is four o'clock!" cried my aunt. 

"In the first place, aunt, it is only ten minutes 
past two; and in the next place leave me in peace." 

"This is frightful! You will die, if you sit up so 
late," exclaimed my aunt. 

"Listen," I said, opening her door, "don't scold, 
or I shall tell you nothing." 

"What is it? Oh, what a girl!" 

"In the first place, I was not writing, I was with 
Pietro." 

"Where, miserable child?" 

"Downstairs." 

"How dreadful!" 

"Ah, if you cry out you shall hear nothing." 

"You were with A ." 

"Yes!" 



76 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

"Well, then," she said, in a voice that made me 
tremble, "when I called you just now, I knew it." 

"How"? 

"I had a dream in which your mother came to me 
and said, 'Do not leave Marie alone with A \" 

A cold shiver passed down my back when I com- 
prehended that I had escaped a real danger. . . . 

Nice, Tuesday, May 23. — I should like to be certain 
of one thing — do I love him or do I not love him? 

I have allowed my thoughts to dwell so much on 
grandeur and riches that Pietro appears to me a very 
insignificant person indeed. Ah, H — — ! And if I 
had waited? — waited for what? A millionnaire prince, 

an H ? And if no one came? I try to persuade 

myself that A is very chic, but when I am with 

him he seems to me even more insignificant than he 
really is. . . . 

To-night I love him. Should I do well to accept 
him? So long as love lasted, it would be very well, 
but afterward? 

I greatly fear that I could not endure mediocrity 
in a husband! 

I reason and discuss as if I were mistress of the 
situation. Ah ! misery of miseries ! 

To wait! To wait for what? 

And if nothing comes! Bah! with my face some- 
thing will come, and the proof is — that I am scarcely 
sixteen and that I might already be a countess two 
and a half times over if I had wished. The half is 
on Pietro's account. 

Wednesday, May 24. — To-night, on going to my 
room, I kissed mamma. 

"She kisses like Pietro," she said laughing. 

"Has he kissed you?" I asked. 

"He has kissed you," said Dina laughing, thinking 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 77 

she had said the most dreadful thing possible, and 
causing me to feel a sensation of lively remorse, almost 
of shame. 

"Oh, Dina!" I cried, with such an expression that 
mamma and my aunt both turned on her a look of 
reproach and displeasure. 

Marie kissed by a man! Marie, the proud, the 
severe, the haughty! Marie, who has made so many 
fine speeches on that subject. 

This made me inwardly ashamed. And indeed, 
why was I false to my principles? I will not admit 
that it was through weakness, through passion. If I 
were to admit that, I should no longer respect myself! 
I cannot say that it was through love. 

Friday, May 26. — My aunt remarked to-day that 
A was only a child. 

"That is quite true," said mamma. 

These words, of which I recognized the justice, 
made me feel that I have sullied myself for nothing; 
for, after all, I have committed this folly without the 
excuse of either interest or love. It is maddening! 

After his departure for Rome I looked at myself 
in the glass, to see if my lips had not changed their color. 

A will have the right to say I loved him, and 

that the breaking of this engagement has made me very 
unhappy. A broken engagement is always a blot 
on the life of a young girl. Every one will say we 
loved each other, but no one will say the refusal came 
from me. We are neither sufficiently liked nor suf- 
ficiently great for that. Besides, appearances will 
justify those who may say so; that enrages me! If 

it were not for those words of V , "Oh, child, how 

young you are still!" I should never have gone so far. 
But I needed to hear his repeated offers of marriage 
to soothe my wounded vanity. You will observe that 
I have said nothing positive; I let him talk, but, as 



78 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. J1876. 

I allowed him to take my hands in his and kiss them 
he failed to notice the tone of my voice, and in his 
happy and exalted mood suspected nothing. These 
thoughts console me, but they are not enough. 

They say the blonde is the ideal woman; as for 
me, I say the blonde is the material woman, par ex- 
cellence. See those golden locks, those lips as red 
blood, those deep-gray eyes, that rose-tinted flesh, 
that Titian knows so well how to paint, and tell me 
what are the thoughts with which they inspire you! 
Besides, we have Venus among the Pagans, and 
Magdalen among the Christians, both of them blondes. 
While the woman who is a brunette, who is really 
as much of an anomaly as a man who is fair, — the 
brunette, with her eyes of velvet and her skin of ivory, 
may remain pure and divine in our thoughts. There 
is a fine picture of Titian's in the Borghese Palace 
called "Pure Love and Impure Love." "Pure Love" 
is a beautiful woman with rosy cheeks and black hair, 
who is regarding with a tender look her infant child 
whom she is holding in the bath. "Impure Love" is 
a reddish blonde who is leaning against something, — 
just what, I do not remember, — with her arms crossed 
above her head. For the rest, the normal woman is 
fair, and the normal man dark. 

The different types we see that are in seeming con- 
tradiction to this rule are sometimes admirable, but 
they are none the less anomalies. I have never seen 

any one to be compared to the Duke of H ; he 

is tall and strong; he has hair of a beautiful reddish 
gold, and a mustache of the same color; his eyes are 
gray and small, but piercing, his lips are modeled 
after those of the Apollo Belvidere. There is in his 
whole person an air of grandeur and majesty, of haught- 
iness even, and indifference to the opinions of others. 
It may be that I see him with the eyes of love. Bah ! 
I do not think so! How is it possible to love a man 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 79 

who is dark, ugly, extremely thin? who has beautiful 
eyes, it is true, but who has all the awkwardness of a 
very young man, and whose bearing is by no means 
distinguished, after having loved a man like the 
Duke, even though it be three years since I have seen 
him? And remember that three years in a young 
girl's life are three centuries. Therefore I love no 
one but the Duke! And the Duke will not be very 
proud of my love, and will care very little about it. I 
often tell myself stories ; I think of all the men I have 
ever known or heard of — well, not even to an Emperor 
could I say, "I love you," with the conviction that I 
was speaking the truth. There are some to whom I 
could not say it at all. — Stay! I have said it in reality! 
Yes, but I thought so little about it at the time that 
it is not worth while to speak of that. 

Sunday, May 28. — I am reading Horace and Tibullus. 
The theme of the latter is always love, and that suits 
me. And then I have the French and the Latin 
texts side by side; that gives me practice. Provided 
only that all this talk about my marriage to which I 
have given rise by my own thoughtlessness does not 
injure me! I much fear it may. I ought not to have 

given A any promise; I should have said to him: 

"I thank you, monsieur, for the honor you have 
done me, but I can give you no answer until I have 
consulted with my family. Let your people speak to 
mine about it, and we shall see. As for me," I might 
have added, to soften this answer, "I shall have no 
objection to offer." 

This, accompanied by one of my amiable smiles, 
and my hand to kiss, would have been sufficient. I 
should not then have compromised myself; they would 
not have gossiped about me at Rome, and all would 
have been well. I have sense enough, but it always 
comes to my assistance too late. 



80 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

Wednesday, May 31. — Has not some one said that 
great minds think alike? I have just been reading 
La Rochefoucauld, and I find he has said a great many- 
things that I have written down here — I, who believed 
I had originated so many thoughts, and it turns out 
that they are all things that have been said long since. 

I am troubled about my eyes. Several times, while 
painting, I was obliged to stop; I could not see. I 
use them too much, for I spend all my time either 
reading, writing, or painting. I went over my com- 
pendium of the classics this evening, and that gave 
me occupation. And then, I have discovered a very 
interesting work on Confucius — a French translation 
from the Latin. There is nothing like keeping the 
mind occupied; work is a cure for everything, especially 
mental work. I cannot understand women who spend 
their time knitting or embroidering — the hands busy 
and the mind idle. A multitude of frivolous or dan- 
gerous fancies must crowd upon the mind at such a 
time, and if there is any secret trouble in the heart, 
the thoughts will dwell upon that, and the result 
must be disastrous. . . . 

Ask those who know me best what they think of 
my disposition, and they will tell you that I am the 
gayest, the most light-hearted, as well as the most 
self-reliant person they ever saw, for I experience a 
singular pleasure in appearing haughty and happy, 
invulnerable to a wound from any quarter, and I 
delight in taking part in discussions of all sorts, both 
serious and playful. Here you see me as I am. To 
the world I am altogether different. One would sup- 
pose, to see me, that I had never had a care in my 
life, and that I was accustomed to bend circumstances 
and people alike to my will. 

Saturday, June 3. — Why does everything turn against 
me ? Forgive me for shedding tears, O my God ! There 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. Si 

are persons more unhappy than I; there are those 
who want for bread, while I sleep under lace cover- 
lets; there are those who bruise their feet against 
the stones of the street, while I tread on carpet; there 
are those who have only the sky for a canopy, while 
I have above my head a ceiling hung with blue satin. 
Perhaps it is for my tears that you punish me, my 
God; ordain, then that I weep no more. To what 
I have already suffered there is now added a feeling 
of personal shame — shame before myself. They will 

say: "Count A asked her in marriage, but there 

was some opposition, so he changed his mind and 
withdrew." 
See how good impulses are recompensed! 

Sunday, June 4. — When Jesus had healed the lunatic, 
his disciples demanded of him why they had not been 
able to do so, and he answered: "Because of your 
unbelief: for verily I say unto you, if ye have faith 
as a grain of mustard-seed, ye shall say unto this 
mountain, Remove hence to yonder place, and it shall 
remove; and nothing shall be impossible to you." 

On reading these words my mind was, as it were, 
illumined, and for the first time in my life, perhaps, 
I believed in God. I rose to my feet, I was conscious 
of myself no longer. I clasped my hands together, 
and raised my eyes to heaven; I smiled; I was in a 
state of ecstasy. Never, never will I doubt again; 
not that I mayfreceive a reward for my faith; but 
because I am convinced — because I believe. Up to 
the age of twelve I was spoiled; my lightest wishes 
were obeyed, but my education was never thought 
of. At twelve years I asked for masters; they were 
given to me, and I made out a course of studies for 
myself. I owe everything to myself. ... 

Thursday, June 8. — . . . To think only that we live 



82 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

but once, and that this life is so short! When I think 
of this my senses forsake me and my mind becomes 
a prey to despair! We live but once! And I am 
losing this precious life, hidden in obscurity, seeing 
no one. We live but once! And my life is being 
ruined. We live but once! And I am made to waste 
my time miserably. And the days are passing, passing, 
never to return, and carrying a part of my life with 
them, as they pass. 

We live but once! Must this life, already so short, 
be still further shortened, ruined, stolen — yes, stolen — 
by miserable circumstances? 

Oh, my God! 

Saturday, June 10. — "Do you know," I said to the 
doctor, "that I spit blood, and that it is necessary 
that my health should be attended to?" 

"Oh, mademoiselle," replied Walitsky, "if you con- 
tinue to go to bed at three o'clock in the morning, 
you will have every ailment under the sun." 

"And why do you suppose I go to bed late? Be- 
cause my mind is disturbed. Give me a tranquil 
mind and I will sleep tranquilly." 

"You might have had that if you chose. You had 
the opportunity at Rome." 

"Who would have given it to me?" 

"A , if you had consented to marry him without 

asking him to change his religion." 

"Oh, my friend Walitsky, how shocking! A man 

like A ! Think of what you are saying! A man 

who has neither an opinion nor a will of his own: 
you have made a very foolish speech!" 

And I began to laugh softly. 

"He neither comes to see us nor writes," I con- 
tinued; "he is a poor boy whose importance we have 
exaggerated. No, my dear friend, he is only a boy, 
and we were wrong to think otherwise." 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF, S3 

I preserved the same calmness in uttering these 
words as I had shown during the rest of the dialogue 
— a calmness that resulted from the conviction I had of 
having said only what was just and true. 

I went to my own room, and my spirit all at once 
became, as it were, illuminated. I comprehended at last 
that I had done wrong in allowing a kiss — a single one, 
indeed, but still a kiss — and in giving a rendezvous down- 
stairs; that, if I had not gone out into the hall or else- 
where, to seek a tete-a-tete, the man would have had 
more respect for me, and I should now have no occasion 
for either anger or tears. 

(How I love myself for having spoken thus! What 
refinement of feeling! — Paris, 1877.) 
I Everything is at an end ! I knew well this state 
of things could not last. I long to lead a tranquil 
life. I will go to Russia — that will improve the situ- 
ation — and bring papa back with me to Rome. 

Monday, June 12; Tuesday, June 13. — I, who de- 
sired to live half a dozen lives at once, I do not live 
even a quarter of a life. I am held in chains. But 
God will have pity upon me; my strength has left 
me, — I feel as if I were going to die. Yes, I must 
either have what God has given me the power to 
discern and to comprehend, in which case I shall be 
worthy of having it or die. For, if God cannot with 
justice grant me all I ask, he will not have the cruelty 
to make an unhappy creature live to whom He has 
given comprehension, and the ambition to attain what 
she comprehends. 

• God has not made me such as I am without design. 
He cannot have given me the power to understand 
all things in order to torture me by denying me every- 
thing. Such a supposition is not in accordance with 
the nature of God, who is just and merciful. I must 
either attain the object of my ambition or die. Let 



84 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

it be as He wills. I love Him; I believe in Him; 
I bless Him; and I beg Him to pardon me for all the 
wrong I may have done. He has endowed me with 
the comprehension of what is great, in order that I 
might attain it, and I will show myself to be worthy 
of the gift. If I am not worthy, then God will allow 
me to die. 

Wednesday, June 14. — In addition to the triumph 
I have given this little Italian, which greatly vexes 
me, I foresee, besides, the scandal that will result from 
this affair. 

I did not anticipate an adventure of this nature; 
I foresaw nothing of the sort; I had never imagined 
that such a thing could happen to me; if I am as 
beautiful as I say, why then am I not loved? I am 
admired, I am made love to, but I am not loved — I, 
who have so much need of love! It is the novels 
I have read that have turned my head! No; but I 
read novels because my head is turned. I read over 
and over again the novels I have already read, seeking 
out the love-scenes with deplorable eagerness. I de- 
vour them, because I think I am loved — because I 
think I am not loved! 

I love, yes; I will give no other name to what I feel. 

But no; this is not what I long for. I long to go 
into society; I long to shine in it; I long to have the 
highest rank in it; I long to be rich, to have pictures, 
palaces, jewels; I long to be the center of a brilliant 
circle — political, literary, charitable, frivolous. I long 
for all this. May God grant it to me ! 

My God, do not chastise me for these wildly am- 
bitious thoughts. Are there not people who are 
born in the midst of all this, and who find it natural 
to possess it, and who thank God for it? 

Am I culpable in desiring to be great? No, for I 
desire to employ my greatness in manifesting my 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 85 

gratitude to God, and in being happy. Is it forbidden 
to wish to be happy? 

Those who find their happiness in a modest and 
comfortable home, are they less ambitious than I? 
No, for they have no comprehension of anything 
beyond. He who is content to live humbly, in the 
midst of his family, is he thus modest and moderate 
in his wishes through wisdom? No, no, no! He is 
so because he is happy thus ; because to live obscurely 
is for him the height of happiness. And if he does 
not desire excitement, it is because excitement would 
render him unhappy. There are those, too, who have 
not the courage to be ambitious; those are not sages, 
but cowards, because they desire, in secret, what 
they do not possess, but make no effort to obtain it, 
not through Christian virtue, but because of a timid 
and incapable nature. My God; if I reason badly en- 
lighten me, pardon me, pity me! 

Thursday y June 22. — When I used to hear Italy 
praised I was incredulous; I could not understand 
why there was so much enthusiasm about this country, 
and why it was spoken of as if it were different from 
other countries. It is because it is different from 
other countries. It is because one breathes there 
another atmosphere. Life is not the same as else- 
where; it is free, fantastic, large, reckless and yet 
languid, fiery yet gentle, like its sun, its sky, its plains. 
Therefore it is that I soar upward on my poet's wings 
(I am sometimes altogether a poet, and almost al- 
ways one on some side of my nature), and am ready 
to exclaim with Mignon: 

Italia, reggio di ciel, 
Sol beato! 

Saturday, June 24. — I was waiting to be called to 
breakfast when the doctor arrived, quite out of breath, 



86 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASRKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

to tell me he had received a letter from Pietro. I 
turned very red and without raising my eyes from my 
book asked: 

"Well, what does he say?" 

"They refuse to give him any money. But you 
will yourself be able to judge from the letter, better 
than I." 

I took good care to show no eagerness to see it. 
I was ashamed to manifest so much interest in the 
matter as that would imply. 

Contrary to custom I was the first at table. I ate 
my breakfast with impatience, but I said nothing. 

"Is what the doctor has told me true?" I asked 
at last. 

"Yes," responded my aunt. "A has written 

to him." 

"Where is the letter, doctor?" 

"In my room." 

"Show it to me." 

The letter bears date of June 10, but as A di- 
rected it simply, "Nice," it has traveled all through 
Italy before arrving here. 

"I have done nothing all this time," he writes, "but 
ask my family to allow me to go to Nice, but they 
absolutely refuse to hear of it"; so that it is impossible 
for him to come, and there is nothing left him but to 
hope in the future, which is always uncertain. 

The letter was in Italian; they waited for me to 
translate it. I said not a word, but gathering up my 
train with affected deliberation, so that they might 
not attribute my departure to agitation, I left the 
room and crossed the garden, my countenance calm, 
but hell within my heart. 

This letter is not in answer to a telegram from 
some Monaco acquaintance, that one should laugh 
at it. It is in answer to me; it is an announcement. 
And it is to me! To me who had soared so high in 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 87 

imagination; it is to me he says this. What remains 
for me to do? 

To die? God does not will it. To become a singer? 
I have neither the health nor the patience for it. 

What then ? What then ? 

I threw myself on a sofa, and with my eyes fixed 
stupidly on vacancy tried to comprehend the meaning 
of the letter, to think of what course to pursue. 

It is impossible to describe my suffering. Besides, 
there comes a time when complaints are useless. 
Crushed as I am of what should I complain? 

I cannot describe the profound disgust and dis- 
couragement I feel. Love ! Word henceforth without 
meaning to me! This, then, is the truth? This man 
has never loved me; and he looks upon marriage only 
as the means of acquiring his freedom. As for his 
protestations, I do not take them into account. I 
have spoken of them to no one. I do not place suf- 
ficient confidence in them to speak of them seriously. 
I do not say that he has always lied to me. A man 
almost always believes in his protestations at the 
moment he is uttering them, but afterward? 

And notwithstanding all these reflections, I am 
burning to be revenged. I will bide my time, but 
be sure I will be revenged. I went into my room, 
wrote a few lines, and then, suddenly losing heart, 
burst into tears. Oh, after all, I am nothing but a 
child. These sorrows are too heavy for me to bear 
all alone. I thought of awaking my aunt, but she 
would think I was crying from disappointed love, 
and I could not endure that. To say that love has 
no part in my tears would be to speak the truth. I 
am ashamed of that feeling now. 

I might write all night without being able to express 
what I feel; and if I could succeed in expressing it, 
I should say nothing new, nothing that I have not 
already said. 



88 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASBKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

Sunday, July 2. — Oh, what heat! Oh, what ennui! 
But I am wrong to say ennui (that one can never 
feel who has so many resources within one's-self as 
I have.) I do not feel ennui; for I read, I sing, I 
paint, I dream; but I am restless and sorrowful. Is 
my poor young life, then, doomed to be spent in eating 
and drinking, and domestic quarrels. Woman lives 
from sixteen to forty. I tremble at the thought of 
losing even a single month of my life. If this is to 
be, why have I studied, and sought to know more 
than other women, priding myself on being as learned 
as great men are said in their biographies to have 
been. 

I have a general idea of many things, but I have 
devoted my attention chiefly to history, literature, 
and physics, so that I might have time to read every- 
thing — everything interesting, that is to say. It is 
true, that once I begin, I find everything interesting. 
And all this produces in me a genuine fever. 

If this is to be so, why have I studied and reflected? 
Why were genius and beauty and the gift of song 
bestowed upon me? That I might wither in obscurity 
and die of sadness. If I had been ignorant and stupid 
I might then, perhaps, have been happy. Not a 
living soul with whom to exchange a word! One's 
family does not suffice for a creature of sixteen — above 
all, a creature such as I am. Grandpapa, it is true, 
is a man of intelligence, but he is old and blind; he 
irritates one with his eternal complaints about the 
dinner and about his servant Triphon. 

Mamma has a good deal of intelligence, very little 
learning, no knowledge of the world, no tact whatever, 
and her faculties have deteriorated through thinking 
of nothing but the servants, my health, and the dogs. 
My aunt is a little more polished; she is imposing, 
even, to those who know her but slightly. 

Have I ever mentioned their ages? If it were not 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 89 

for ill-health, mamma would be still a superb woman. 
My aunt is a few years younger, but looks older; 
she is not handsome, but she is tall and she has a 
good figure. 

Monday, July 3. — I leave Nice to-morrow. I feel 
an indefinable sadness at leaving Nice. I have selected 
the music I shall take with me, and some books — the 
encyclopcedia, a volume of Plato, Dante, Ariosto, 
Shakespeare, and several English novels, by Bulwer, 
Collins and Dickens. 

I went into my room, followed by all the dogs. 
I drew the white box over to the table. Ah, that is 
my chief regret — my journal! That is the half of 
myself. I was accustomed to glance over some one 
of its volumes every day, when I wished to recall 
Rome or Nice, or something still further back in the 
past. 

And as if expressly for me — on this the eve of my 
departure — the moon shines brightly, lighting up the 
beauties of my city with her pale and silvery light. 
My city? Yes, my city. I am too insignificant a person 
for any one to care to dispute its ownership with me. 
Besides, does not the sun belong equally to every one? 
I entered the drawing-room; the moon's rays poured in 
through the large, open windows, and lighted up the 
white plaster wall, and the white covers of the chairs. 
One feels melancholy without knowing why, on a sum- 
mer night like this. 

I am going to Russia. . . . To-night, the eve of a 
journey, to which I have looked forward so eagerly, how 
gladly I would go to bed early, to make the time seem 
shorter. 

Rome attracts me. Rome is a city that one does 
not understand at first. For the first few days I saw 
nothing in Rome but the Pincio and the Corso. I did 
not understand the simple beauty, the glamour cast 
over it by the Past, of the campagna without trees, 



90 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

without houses. Nothing but an undulating plain, 
like the Ocean in a storm dotted here and there with 
flocks of sheep, kept by shepherds, like those of whom 
Virgil speaks. 

Beside this vast solitude furrowed with aqueducts, 
whose straight lines, cutting the horizon, produce the 
most impressive effect, are to be seen the finest monu- 
ments of paganism and of civilization in the world. . . . 
No description can give an exact idea of this splendid 
and beautiful country, this land of the sun, of the 
soul, of genius, of the arts; this land that has remained 
fallen so long that it would not be possible for it soon 
to rise again. 

To leave my journal behind, that is a real grief. 

This poor journal, the confidant of all my strivings 
toward the light, all these outbursts, which would be 
regarded as the outbursts of imprisoned genius if my 
aspirations were to be finally crowned by success, but 
which will be regarded only as the vain ravings of a 
commonplace creature if I am destined to languish 
forever in obscurity. To marry and have children? 
Any washerwoman can do that. 

What then do I desire? Ah, you know well what I 
desire — I desire fame! 

It is not this journal that will give it to me, however. 
This journal will be published only after my death 
for I show myself too nakedly in it to wish it to be read 
during my lifetime. Besides, it would then be the com- 
plement of an illustrious existence. 

An illustrious existence! Vain illusion! the product 
of an isolated life, much reading of history, and a too 
lively imagination. 

I know no language perfectly. My own is familiar 
to me only in connection with domestic affairs. I left 
Russia at the age of ten, and I speak English and Italian 
well. I think and write in French, yet I believe I still 
make mistakes in spelling. And often, to my unut- 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. qi 

terable vexation, I find some thought which I had 
vainly sought to put into fitting words, expressed by 
some celebrated author with fluency and grace. Here 
is an instance: "To travel, whatever we may say to 
the contrary, is one of the saddest pleasures in life; 
when you begin to feel yourself at home in some foreign 
land, it is because you have already begun to make it 
your country." It is the author of Corinne who says 
this. And how many times have I lost patience, 
trying vainly, pen in hand, to express the same thought, 
and burst out, at last, into some such words as 
these: "I hate new cities! It is a martyrdom for me 
to see new faces!" We all think alike, then; the only 
difference is in the way we express our thoughts; as 
men are all made out of the same clay, but how widely 
do they differ in features, form, complexion, and char- 
acter! 

One of these days I shall no doubt come across some 
such thought as this, but expressed with spirit, elo- 
quence, and grace. 

There, this volume is finished. When I arrive in 
Paris I will begin a new one that will no doubt suffice for 
Russia also. 

I shall take Pietro's last letter with me. 

I have just read it again. He is unhappy! Why, 
then, has he not more energy ? 

It is easy for me — obeyed as I am by every one — to 
talk; but for him — And then those Romans — there are 
no other people in the world like them. 

Poor Pietro! The thought of my future fame for- 
bids me to allow my mind to dwell seriously upon him. 
I feel as if it reproached me for the moments I dedicate 
to him. 

Dear Divinity, reassure thyself. Pietro is nothing 
more for me than an amusement — a strain of music in 
which to drown the lamentations of my soul. If I reproach 
myself for allowing my thoughts to dwell upon him, it is 



02 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

because he can be of no service to me. He cannot even 
be the first rung of the divine ladder that leads to fame. 

Grand Hotel, Paris, July 4. 

Amor, ut lacryma, oculo oritur in pectus cadit. 

— Publius Syrus. 

Wednesday, July 5. — I left Nice yesterday at two in 
the afternoon, accompanied by my aunt and Amalie 
my maid. 

Mamma has been crying for the last three days, at 
the thought of our approaching separation, so that I 
have been sweet and affectionate with her. 

The love one has for a husband, a lover, a friend, a 
child, comes and goes, because all these beings may be 
a second time. But there is only one mother and a 
mother is the only being in whom one can put entire 
trust, whose love is disinterested, devoted and eternal. 
I felt this for the first time, perhaps, in bidding mamma 
good-bye. And how I laughed at the feeling I had 
entertained for L. — for H. — and for A. — And of 
how little importance they seemed to me then! Of 
none at all. 

Grandpapa was moved to tears. And then there 
is always something solemn in the farewell of an old 
man; he blessed me and gave me an image of the Holy 
Virgin. 

Mamma and Dina accompanied us to the station. 

I assumed, as always, my most joyous air for saying 
good-bye. I was very sad, however. 

Mamma did not cry, but something like a wave of 
regret swept over me at our parting, for having often 
been unkind to her. — But, I thought, as I looked out 
at her from the window of our car, I have not been 
unkind to her from badness; I have been unkind to her 
from grief, from despair; and now I am going away to 
change our life. 



I 

1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 93 

At half-past two we reached Paris; it must be con- 
fessed that if Paris is not the most beautiful, it is at 
least the most charming, the most spirituelle of 
cities. 

Thursday, July 13. — We went to see the Countess 
M this evening. She spoke to me about marrying. 

" Oh, no," I said, " I have no wish to marry. I want 
to be a great singer. See, dear Countess, we must do 
this; I will disguise myself as a poor girl, and you and 
my aunt will take me to the most celebrated singing- 
master in Paris, as a little Italian protegee of yours who 
gives promise of being a singer." 

"Oh! oh!" cried the Countess in remonstrance. 

"That is the only way to learn the truth concerning 
my voice," I resumed tranquilly. "And I have one of 
last year's dresses that will just produce the desired 
effect!" I added, pursing up my mouth and pushing 
out my lips. 

"After all, it is an excellent idea!" she said at last. 

Friday, July 14. — Since morning I have been taking 
the greatest care of myself; I have not coughed once 
more than was necessary. I have not moved. I am 
dying of heat and thirst, but I have not taken even a 
drink of water. . . . 

We set out at last, with Madame de M , and pro- 
ceeded to No. 37 Chaussee d'Antin, where M. Wartel, 
the most celebrated singing-master in Paris, lives. 

Madame de M had spoken to him of me as a 

young girl from Italy who had been particularly recom- 
mended to her, and whose family desired to know what 
hopes she gave of becoming a great singer. 

We reached the house at three . . . and were shown 
into a little salon adjoining the one in which the master 
was giving a singing lesson. At last four o'clock struck. 
I felt my limbs tremble and my strength fail me. 



94 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

Wartel made me a sign that meant "come in." I 
did not understand. 

"Come in, mademoiselle, come in," he said. 

I entered the salon, followed by my two protect- 
resses, whom I begged to return to the room we had 
left, lest their presence should intimidate me, and in 
truth I felt very much afraid. 

Wartel is an old man, his accompanist is quite young. 

"Do you read music?" asked the master. 

"Yes," I replied. 

"What pieces can you sing?" 

"None; but I can sing a scale or an exercise." 

"Take an exercise, then, Monsieur Chose. What is 
your voice — soprano?" • 

"No, monsieur, contralto." 

"We shall see." 

Wartel, who did not rise from the arm-chair in which 
he was seated, made me a sign to begin, and I proceeded 
to sing an exercise with diffidence at first, then with 
determination, and at last with satisfaction. 

"Well," said the master, "your voice is rather a 
mezzo-soprano than a contralto. It is a voice that will 
gain in range. Have you ever taken lessons?" 

"Never, monsieur; that is to say, ten lessons only." 

"Well, you must work hard. Can you sing a 
romance?" 

"The aria from Mignon!" cried my aunt from the 
other room. 

"Very well; sing the aria from Mignon." 

As I sang, the countenance of Wartel, which at first 
had expressed only attention, showed a slight surprise 
which gradually deepened into amazement; at last he 
went so far as to keep time to the music with his head, 
smiling with pleasure as he did so, and finally to join 
in himself. 

"Good very good! now make her sing a — " I have 
forgotten the word he used. 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 95 

The accompanist made me sing the — (it signifies little 
what its name was), he made me run through all my 
notes. 

1 ' As far as si natural, ' ' said the old man. ' ' Yes, it is a 
mezzo-soprano; and that is better, much better, for the 
stage." 

I still remained standing. 

"Sit down, mademoiselle," said the accompanist, 
examining me critically from head to foot with his eyes. 

I sat down on the edge of the sofa. 

"Well," said the severe Wartel, "you must work 
hard; you will succeed." 

"How long will it take to develop her voice?" said 
Madame de M . 

"You can understand, madame, that that will depend 
upon the pupil herself; some do not need so long — those 
who have intelligence." 

"This one has more than enough." 

"Ah, so much the better; in that case it will be 
easier." 

"But, finally, how long will it take?" 

"To develop her voice, to perfect it, fully three years; 
yes, fully three years' work, fully three years!" he re- 
peated. 

I was silent, meditating vengeance against the per- 
fidious accompanist, whose looks seemed to say, "This 
little girl has a good figure, she is pretty; that will be 
amusing." 

After a few words more we rose: Wartel remained 
seated, and extended his hand kindly to me. I bit my 
lips. 

"Listen," I said at the door, "let us go back and tell 
them the truth." 

My aunt took out her card, and we returned, laugh- 
ing. I told the severe maestro of my stratagem. 

What an expression the f.ce of the accompanist 
wore! I shall never forget it; I was avenged. 



96 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

Tuesday, July 18. — To-day I have had an extraordin- 
ary experience. We went to see the celebrated clair- 
voyant Alexis. He gives hardly any consultations 
except about the health. 

We were introduced into a dimly-lighted room, and, 

as Mme. de M said, on entering, "We have not 

come about our health," the doctor, who was there 
went out of the room, leaving us alone with the clair- 
voyant. 

"It is not a question of health," said Mme. de M — , 
placing my hand in the hand of Alexis. 

"Ah!" he said, with his eyes half closed and glazed 
like those of a dead man. "Meantime your little 
friend is very ill." 

" Oh ! " I cried, frightened; and I was going to tell him 
not to speak of my illness, fearing that I should hear 
something terrible. But, before I could do so, he pro- 
ceeded to give me a detailed description of my malady, 
which is laryngitis, something chronic; — laryngitis, but 
my lungs are very strong, which is what has saved me. 

"The organ was superb," said Alexis, compassion- 
ately, "but it is now in a bad condition. You must 
take care of yourself." 

"I have come, monsieur," I replied, "to consult you 
about this person." 

And I gave him a sealed envelope containing the 
cardinal's photograph. 

But before setting down here all the extraordinary 
things I have to tell, it must first be said that there 
was nothing about me to betray the fact that I had 
any connection with a cardinal. I had not spoken a 
word to anyone about him. And then, what likelihood 
was there that an elegant young Russian girl should go 
to a clairvoyant to talk to him about the pope, the 
cardinal; Satan? 

Alexis pressed the envelope to his forehead. I grew 
impatient. 



1876.I JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 97 

"I see him," he said, at last. 

"Where is he?" 

"In a large city, in Italy; He is in a palace; sur- 
rounded by many people. He is a young man. — No; 
it is his expressive countenance that misled me. He 
has grey hair — he is in uniform — he is over sixty." 

I, who had been drinking in his words with ever- 
increasing avidity, turned cold. 

"A uniform of what kind?" I asked. "That is 
strange; he is not a soldier." 

"No, assuredly not." 

"No; but what uniform does he wear, then?" 

"A foreign uniform; not French — it is — " 

"It is " 

"It is an ecclesiastical habit — Wait — He occupies a 
very high position. He rules over others; he is a 
bishop — no! he is a cardinal." 

"A cardinal?" I repeated. 

"Yes." 

"What is he thinking about?" 

"He is thinking about something very serious. He is 
very much preoccupied." 

The slowness of Alexis and the difficulty he seemed 
to have in saying the words made me nervous. 

"Go on," I said. "Look well; who is with him? 
What is he saying?" 

"Two young men are with him — officers; two young 
men whom he sees often, who belong to the palace." 
j In the Saturday audiences I had always noticed two 
young officers among the attendants of the pope. 

"He is talking to them," continued Alexis; "he is 
talking to them in a foreign language — Italian!" 

"Italian?" 

"Ah! but he is very learned, this cardinal; he knows 
almost all the languages of Europe." 

"Do you see him at this moment?" 

"Yes, yes. Those who are about him are also 



98 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

ecclesiastics. One of them, a tall, thin man, with 
glasses, approaches him and speaks to him in a low 
voice. He is near-sighted. He is obliged to put the 
object he is looking at close to his eyes to see it." 

"What is this cardinal thinking about?" I asked. 
What has he been doing? Whom has he seen lately? " 

"Yesterday — yesterday there was a large gathering 
at his house — of ecclesiastics — all ecclesiastics. They 
discussed a grave, a very grave subject, yesterday, 
Monday. He is very uneasy, because it is a question 
of " 

"Of what?" 

"They have been talking of — they are working for — 
they wish " 

"They wish to make him — pope!" 

"Oh! Oh!" 

The tone in which this was said, the clairvoyant's 
astonishment and the words themselves had something 
of the effect of an electric shock upon me. 

"Pope!" I cried. 

"Yes, pope," repeated Alexis; "but there are great 
difficulties in the way — He is not the one who has the 
best chance." 

"But will he be pope?" 

"I cannot read the future." 

"But try, monsieur, try. You can. Go on!" 

"No, no; I cannot read the future! I cannot 
read it'!" 

1 ■ But who is this cardinal ? What is his name ? Can 
you not tell by those around him, by what they are say- 
ing to him?" 

"A , wait. Ah!" he said, "the image which I 

have here of him is almost devoid of vitality, and you 
are so restless that you fatigue me horribly. Your 
nerves shock mine; be more calm." 

"Yes, but you say things that make me jump. Go 
on; what is the name of this cardinal?" 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 99 

And he pressed his hand to his forehead, smelling the 
envelope (which is grey, a double envelope, and very 
thick). 

"A 1" 

I sank back in my chair. 

''Does he think of me?" 

"Very little — and that little is bad. He is against 
you. There is some dissatisfaction. I don't know 
about what — political reasons — 

1 ' Political reasons ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"But is he going to be pope?" 

"I don't know. The French party is going to be 
broken up, that is to say that the French papabile has 
so little chance — hardly any, indeed — that his party 
is going to join the Antonelli party, or the other Italian 
party." 

4 ' Which of the two ? Which will win ? " 

" I cannot tell until they have begun to work, but there 
is a strong party against A. It will be the other." 

"And will they soon begin to work?" 

"One cannot tell. There is the pope; one can't 
kill the pope, the pope must live " 

"And will Antonelli live a long time?" 

Alexis shook his head. 

"He is very ill, then?" 

"Oh, yes." 

"What is the matter with him?" 

"He has trouble with his legs, he has gout, and yes- 
terday — no the day before yesterday— he had a very 
bad attack. He has decomposition of the blood, I 
cannot speak of that to a lady — — " 

"And it would be of no use." 

"Don't get excited," he said. "You fatigue me. 
Think slowly. I cannot follow you." 

His hand trembled, which made me tremble all over. 
I let it go and I become calm. 



IOO JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

"Take this," I said to him, giving him Pietro's letter, 
enclosed in a sealed envelope exactly like the other one. 

He took it, and pressed it, as he had done the other, 
against his heart and his forehead. 

"Wait," he said, "this one is younger, he is very 
young. This letter was written some time ago; it was 
written at Rome and since then that person has left 
Rome. He is still in Italy, but not in Rome. . . . 
There is the sea. . . . This man is in the country . . . 
in the open country. Oh, he left Rome yesterday, 
only twenty-four hours ago. But this man is something 
to the Pope. I see him behind the Pope. He is con- 
nected with the Pope. There is a close relationship 
between them." 

"But what is his character, what are his inclinations, 
his thoughts?" 

"He has a strange character, reserved, gloomy, 
ambitious — He thinks of you constantly — but he 
thinks before everything else of attaining his end. He 
is ambitious." 

"Does he love me? " 

"Very much; but his is a strange, unhappy nature. 
He is ambitious." « 

"But he does not love me, then?" 

"Yes; he loves you, but with him love and ambi- 
tion go hand in hand. He lias need of you" 

"Describe his character to me more in detail." \ 

"He is the opposite of you," said Alexis, smiling, 
" although he is quite as nervous." 

"Does he see the Cardinal?" 

"No; they are not on good terms; the Cardinal has 
been against him for a long time, for political reasons. 
But he is closely related to him," continued Alexis. 
"The Cardinal is dissatisfied with him." 

"Have they not seen each other lately?" 

"Wait! You think about too many things at once. 
These are difficult questions you ask me. I have got 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. ioi 

this letter mixed up with the other! They have been 
in the same envelope!" 

Which was true. — Yesterday they were in the same 
envelope. 

"Look, monsieur; try to see." 

"I see! They saw each other two days ago, but 
they were not alone — I see him with a lady." 

"Young?" 

"Middle-aged, his mother." 

"What did they talk about?" 

"Nothing, plainly; they were embarrassed. They 
said a few vague words, hardly anything about this 
marriage." 

"Whatmarraige?" 

"With you." 

"Who has spoken about it?" 

"They. Antonelli does not speak, he listens. He 
was always against this marriage ; but especially in the 
beginning. Now he regards it in a better light, and 
bears the idea of it a little better." 

"But what are the young man's thoughts about it?" 

" His thoughts are settled. He wishes to marry you, 
but Antonelli does not wish it. Lately, however, he 
has become less hostile to you." 

The presence of Mme. de M. — embarrassed me 
greatly. I went on bravely, however, although all my 
high spirits had fallen as low as possible. 

"If this young man thinks only of his ambition then 
he does rot think of me?" 

"Oh, yes! I have told you that with him, his ambi- 
tion and you are one and the same thing." 

"Then he loves me?" 

"Oh, very much!" 

"Since when?" 

"You are too excited, you fatigue me, and you ask 
me questions that are too difficult to answer. I see 
nothing!" 



102 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

"But try— try! " 

"I do not see — For a long time past? No, I do 
not see that." " 

"What is he to A?" 

"A near relation." 

"And A — Has he anything in view for this young 
man?" 

"Oh, yes! But they are divided by politics." 

"You say that A — is against me?" 

"Very much. He does not wish this marriage to 
take place on account of your religion. But he is 
beginning to be softened — Oh, very little. It all 
depends upon politics. I tell you that A — and this 
young man were divided entirely, a short time ago. 
A — was decidedly against him." 

Well, what do you say to this, you who call these 
things charlatanism? If this is charlatanism, char- 
latanism produces marvelous results. I have written 
down everything exactly as it occurred. Something I 
have perhaps omitted, but I have added nothing. Now 
is it not all amazing? Is it not strange? 

My aunt pretended incredulity, for she was furious 
with the Cardinal. She began a tirade, without 
meaning or purpose, against Alexis, which provoked 
me terribly, for I knew very well that she did not 
believe a word of what she was saying. 

Sunday, July 23. — Rome — Paris — the stage, singing, 
painting! 

No, no! Russia before everything! That is the 
foundation of everything. Since I am posing as a sage, 
let me play my part consistently; let me not be led 
astray by any of the will-o'-the-wisps of the imagina- 
tion. 

Russia first of all, if God will only help me. 

I have written to mamma. Here I am, out of love, 



1876.I JOURNAL OF MARIE BASRKIRTSEFF. 103 

and up to my ears in affairs. Oh, if God will only help 
me, then all will go well. 

May the Virgin Mary pray for me! 

Thursday, July 27. — We arrived this morning in 
Berlin having left Paris at seven o'clock yesterday 
morning. 

The city made a singularly agreeable impression on 
me; the houses are extremely handsome. 

Friday, July 28. — Berlin reminds me of Italy, of 
Florence. It reminds me of Florence because my aunt 
is with me here, as she was at Florence, and the life we 
lead is the same. Before going anywhere else we went 
to the Museum. Whether from ignorance or prejudice, 
I had not expected to see so fine a collection of works 
of art as we found here. As usual, it was the sculpture 
that most engaged my attention; it seems to me that 
I have one sense more than other people — a sense 
devoted especially to the comprehension of sculpture. 

Here I am lodged like Faust, — before me an antique 
German bureau, at which I am seated with books, man- 
uscripts and rolls of paper around me. 

Where is the devil? Where is Margaret? Alas! the 
devil is always with me; my mad vanity — that is the 
devil. ambition unjustified by results! vain 
aspirations toward an unknown goal! 

I hate moderation in anything. I want either a life of 
continual excitement or one of absolute repose. Why 
the thought should occur to me now I know not, but I 

do not love A . Not only do I not love him, but 

I do not even think of him any longer, and all that 
appears to me a dream. 

While I do not admire the plainness and the material- 
ism of the Germans, I must concede to them many good 
qualities: they are very polite, and very obliging. 



104 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

What I like most in them is the respect they entertain 
for their history and for their rulers. This shows they 
are still far from being contaminated by the infection 
of what is called republicanism. No other form of 
government can be compared to the ideal republic; 
but a republic is like ermine — the slightest blemish upon 
it renders it worthless. And where will you find a 
republic without blemish? 

No, life here is impossible ; this is a frightful country. 
Fine houses, broad streets — but nothing for the spirit or 
the imagination. The most insignificant town in Italy 
is the equal of Berlin in this respect. 

Sunday, July 30. — Nothing can be gloomier than 
Berlin. The city bears the stamp of simplicity — a 
simplicity without beauty or grace. The innumerable 
monuments that encumber the bridges, the streets, and 
the gardens seem unmeaning and out of place. Berlin 
reminds one of the pictures on certain clocks, where, at 
stated intervals, the soldiers come out from the bar- 
racks, the boatmen row, and ladies in hoods, holding 
ugly little children by the hand, pass by. 

Now that the time has arrived when I shall cross the 
Russian frontier, and be left without either my aunt or 
mamma, my courage fails, and I begin to be afraid. 
The law-suit, the uncertainty — and then, and then — I 
don't know why, but I fear that I shall be able to alter 
nothing. 

In two hours more we leave Berlin. To-morrow I 
shall be in Russia. Well, then, no; I will not be afraid. 
I am strong. Only, if my journey should prove to be 
in vain! But it will not do to think of that. One 
must not despair beforehand. 

Oh, if any one could know what I feel ! 

Monday », July 31. — At four o'clock yesterday we 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 105 

arrived at Eydt-Riihnen, three hours from the Russian 
frontier, if you please ! 

The country here is fiat, and thickly wooded, but the 
foliage, although fresh and luxuriant, has a certain look 
of sadness, after the rich and flourishing verdure of the 
South. We were conducted to an inn called the Rus- 
sian Hotel, and installed in two small rooms with 
whitewashed ceilings and bare wooden floors, and furni- 
ture equally simple and unpretending. 

Thursday, August 3; Friday, August 4 (July 23, Rus- 
sian style) . — Yesterday at three o'clock I went to meet 
the train, and fortunately found my uncle, who had 
already arrived, waiting for me. ... At midnight I 
entered the carriage; my aunt cried; I held my eyes 
level and motionless, so that the tears might not over- 
flow. The conductor gave the signal, and, for the first 
time in my life, I found myself alone ! I began to sob 
aloud; but don't imagine that I derived no profit 
from it ! I studied from nature the art of crying. 

"Enough! my child," I said at last, sitting erect. 
It was time. I was in Russia. On descending from 
the carriage I was received in the arms of my uncle, 
who was accompanied by two gendarmes and two 
custom-house officers. I was treated like a princess; 
they did not even examine my luggage. The station is 
large, and the officials are well-bred and extremely 
polite. I fancied myself in some ideal country, every- 
thing is so well-managed. . . . My compatriots awaken 
no particular emotion in me, no species of ecstasy such 
as I have experienced on revisiting other countries 
that I had seen before; all I feel is a sort of sympathy 
for them and a sensation of extreme ease. It was still 
daylight at half -past nine. We had already passed 
Gatchina, the ancient residence of Paul I., who was so 
greatly persecuted by his haughty mother; and we at 



106 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

last arrived at Tsarskoe Selo, within twenty-five min- 
utes of St. Petersburg. 

Sunday, August 6. — It is raining, and I have taken 
cold; I have written in my letter to mamma, "St. 
Petersburg is a filthy place! The streets are disgrace- 
ful for the capital of a country ; one is mercilessly jolted 
over the rough paving-stones; the Winter-Palace is a 
barracks, and so is the Grand Theater; the cathedrals 
are richly decorated, but bizarre and badly planned." 
I tried to call up some emotion on looking at the por- 
trait of Pietro A , but he is not handsome enough 

to make one forget that he is a despicable man, a crea- 
ture one cannot but regard with contempt. I am no 
longer angry with him; I despise him too much for 
that — not from personal feeling, but because of his 
manner of life, of his weakness of character. Stay, I 
am going to define for you the word weakness. The 
weakness which inclines us to the good, to tenderness, 
to the forgiveness of injuries, may be called by that 
name, but the weakness which inclines us to evil-doing 
and wickedness is called cowardice. 

I thought I should feel the separation from my family 
more than I do. I am, however, not happy; but that is 
rather owing to the presence of disagreeable and com- 
mon people (my poor uncle, for example, notwithstand- 
ing his good looks), than to the absence of those I love. 

Monday, August 7, 1876 {July 26). — I have just come 
from the post-office, where I went to get my photographs 
and a dispatch from my father. He had telegraphed to 
Berlin that my coming would be for him a "real hap- 
piness.' ' 

Thursday, August 10 {July 29), 1876. — This is a 
memorable evening. I have finally ceased to regard 
the Duke of H as my cherished ideal. I saw at 



I873- 1 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 107 

Bergamasco's a portrait of the Grand Duke Vladimir, 
from which I could not tear myself away; a more per- 
fect and pleasing type of manly beauty could not be 
imagined. Giro grew enthusiastic with me over it, 
and we ended by kissing the portrait on the lips. . . . 
I adored the Duke when I might have adored a Prince 
Imperial of Russia! It was stupid, but one cannot 
command these things; and then, in the beginning I 

regarded H as my equal, as a man whom I might 

aspire to marry. Well, that is past. Who will be my 
idol now? No one. I shall live for fame, and in the 
hope of finding — a man. 

Behold me, then, free! I have no longer an idol to 
worship; I am in search of some one to adore, and I 
must find one soon, for life without love is like a bottle 
without wine. The wine must be good wine, however. 

God! how could I have kissed him on the face? I 
the first! Mad, execrable creature! Ah, this is what 
makes me weep and tremble with rage! Turpis, ex- 
ecrabilis ! 

He thought it was a simple thing for me, that it was 
not the first time, that I was accustomed to it! Vat- 
ican and Kremlin ! I am choking with rage and shame ! 

Abundance is not the only merit of the fare here. 
It is also of the most delicate quality. When one eats 
well, one is in a good humor, one regards good fortune 
with greater joy and evil fortune with greater equanim- 
ity, and one feels well-disposed toward one's neighbors. 
Gluttony is a monstrous thing in a woman, but to love 
good eating to some extent is as much a merit as it is to 
be intelligent or well-dressed; without taking into 
account that simple and delicate food preserves the 
health, and, as a consequence, youth, the freshness of 
the complexion, and the roundness of the contours. 
Let my figure testify to this. Marie Sapogenikoff was 
right in saying that a figure like mine was worthy of a 



108 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

more beautiful face; and observe that I am far from 
being ugly. At thirteen I was too large, and everylone 
thought me sixteen. At present I am slender, but fully 
developed, well rounded, perhaps too much so. I com- 
pare myself with all the statues I see, and I find none 
of them with contours as rounded, or with hips as large, 
as mine. Is this a defect? The shoulders, however, 
require a slightly fuller curve. 

Monday, August 14 (August 2). — At the station 
Grousskoe we were met by two carriages, six peasant- 
servants, and my good-for-nothing brother. Paul is tall 
and rather stout but beautiful as a Roman statue. 

We arrived at Chapatowka, after a drive of an hour 
and a half, during which time I could detect the exist- 
ence of much petty rivalry and spite of my father's side 
toward the Babanines. I held my head high and kept 
my brother in check, who, indeed, was enchanted to see 
me. I will not take part with either side. I need to be 
on good terms with my father. 

The house is small, and consists of a single story. It 
has a large garden, not very well kept. The women of 
the peasantry are remarkably well-formed, pretty, and 
piquante in their costume, that follows every contour of 
the figure and allows the leg to be seen as far as the 
knee. 

My Aunt Marie received us on the steps. After I 
had taken a bath we went in to dinner. I had several 
skirmishes with Paul. He tries to pique me, without 
meaning it, perhaps, and only in obedience to the im- 
pulse given him by my father. I put him haughtily 
in his place, however, and it is he who is humbled when 
he sought to humble me. I can read what is in the 
depths of his heart: Incredulity as to my success and 
petty resentment in regard to our relative positions in 
the world. The only name they give me here is 
"Queen." My father seeks to dethrone me, but I 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 109 

will make him yield to my power. I know his nature 
for he and I are alike in many things. 

Tuesday, August 1 5 {August 3). — I was walking slowly 
up and down, leaning on my brother Paul's arm, and 
my thoughts idly wandering, when, in passing under the 
trees whose interlaced branches formed a green canopy 
above that almost touched our heads, it occurred to 

me to think what A would say if he were walking 

here with me and I were leaning on his arm. He would 
say, bending slightly toward me, in those soft and pen- 
etrating tones he kept for me alone, "How happy I 
am, and how much I love you!" 

No words could give an idea of the tenderness of his 
accents in speaking to me, in saying these things that 
were meant for me — alone. Those tiger-cat manners, 
those burning glances and those enchanting tones, 
veiled and vibrating, that murmured endearing words 
as if they were a complaint or a supplication — so hum- 
ble, so passionate, so gentle were they — were for me 
alone! 

But it was a superficial tenderness, that meant noth- 
ing; and if he looked at me tenderly, it was because 
this was his natural expression, as there are persons 
who appear always eager, others who appear always 
astonished, and others vexed, when they are none of 
these things in reality. 

Oh, how I should like to know the truth in regard to 
all this! I should like to return to Rome married, other- 
wise it would be a humiliation. But I have no desire 
to marry. I want to remain free, and, above all, I 
want to study. I have discovered the right path at 
last. 

And, frankly speaking, to marry in order to spite 
A would be a piece of stupidity. 

That is not the question, however, but I wish to live as 
other women live. 



HO JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

I am dissatisfied with myself to-night, without know- 
ing precisely why. 

Sunday, August 20. (August 8). — On the journey 
from Chapatowka I was accompanied by my brother 
Paul who has been very attentive to me. We stayed 
two hours at Kharkoff and arrived at Poltava at six 
this morning. No one was at the station to meet us. 
On reaching the hotel I wrote a peremptory letter to 
my father asking him to come to me at once, but I had 
hardly sent off the letter when he rushed into the room 
and I embraced him with dignified composure. He 
was evidently satisfied with my face for without speak- 
ing he began to examine my figure critically. 

"How tall you are! Much taller than I had ex- 
pected to see you. And how pretty! Yes, yes; very 
good-looking, indeed." 

"And this is how you receive me — not even a car- 
riage to meet me! Did you get my letter?" 

"No; but I got your dispatch, and I came at once. 
I had intended to come by train. I am all dusty. To 
get here the sooner, I drove over in little E's troika." 

"And I wrote you a peremptory letter." 

"Like the last dispatch?" 

"Something like it." 

"Very well; oh, very well." 

"That's my way; people pay attention to me." 

"That's my way too . But I am not alone. 

Prince Michel E and Paul G your cousin, are 

with me." 

"Let them come in." 

E is a perfect little fop — astonishingly amusing, 

bowing ridiculously low and swallowed up in a pair of 
trousers three times too large for him and a collar reach- 
ing up to his ears. The other one is called Pacha.* 

His family name is too difficult to write down. A 
* Diminutive of Paul. 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. in 

vigorous and robust young man, with light chestnut 
hair; a clean-shaven face, very Russian-looking; well 
set up, frank, serious, sympathetic, but taciturn, or 
preoccupied, I am not quite sure yet which. 

They had been waiting for my arrival with the great- 
est curiosity. My father is delighted. He is en- 
chanted with my figure, the vain man is proud to show 
me off. 

We were quite ready to start, but we had to wait 
for the servants and baggage, in order that the cortege 
might be more imposing. A carriage with four horses, 
a barouche and a covered drosky harnessed to a crazy 
troika belonging to the little prince. 

Midway on the road I got into the drosky, to enjoy 
the motion. At the end of twenty-five minutes we 
had made ten versts.* We were still two versts dis- 
tant from Gavronzi and I returned to my father in 
order to give him the satisfaction of making an imposing 
entrance. 

The Princess E , Michael's stepmother and my 

father's sister, met us on the perron. 

"Eh!" said my father, "isn't she tall — and interest- 
ing-looking, eh?" 

He must have been satisfied with me to risk so frank 
an expression of his feelings before one of his sisters 
(but this one is excellent). 

A steward and some other persons came to congrat- 
ulate me on my safe arrival. 

The estate is picturesquely situated — hills, a river, 
trees, a fine house and several small ones. All the 
buildings perfectly kept and the garden well-cared for; 
besides which the house was rebuilt and refurnished 
almost entirely this winter. They live in great style, 
while affecting simplicity and having the air of saying, 
" It is just the same every day." 

Naturally there was champagne at breakfast. An 
*A Russian measure of length, about 11 66 yards. 



112 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

affectation of aristocracy and simplicity mixed that 
bordered on stiffness. 

Family portraits, proofs of ancient lineage, that were 
only too agreeable to me. Fine bronzes, Sevres and 
Saxony porcelains, objects of art. In truth I did not 
expect to find all this here. My father poses as an 
unhappy husband abandoned by his wife — he who 
asked for nothing more than to be a model 
husband. 

A large portrait of my mother painted during her 
absence, marks of regret at the remembrance of a lost 
happiness and outbursts of hatred against my grand- 
parents who destroyed this happiness. Immense care 
to make me feel that my arrival had changed nothing 
in their way of living. 

A green bed-chamber and a blue salon have been 
assigned me. How strange it seems when I think of 
all my peregrinations this winter! And since I have 
been in Russia how many times have my guides, my 
places of abode, the countries through which I have 
passed, been changed! 

All these changes — of dwellings, of relations, of 
acquaintances, I make without the least surprise, or 
that feeling of strangeness that I used to have before. 
All these people, indifferent persons or protectors, all 
these instruments of luxury, or of utility, become con- 
founded together and make no impression upon me. 
How shall I manage to take my father back with me to 
Rome? 

That is the point. 

March 22 — (August 10.) — At two o'clock we set out 
for Poltava. 

This morning we had a skirmish, on account of the 
Babanines, and in the carriage my father again spoke 
insultingly about them, because of his lost happiness, 
blaming grandmamma for everything. The blood 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 113 

mounted to my face and I told him angrily to let the 
dead rest in their graves. 

"Let the dead rest!" he cried. "But the truth is, if 
I could take the ashes of that woman " 

"Be silent, father! You are rude and ill-bred! . . . 
You have nothing to do with the Babanines, attend to 
the affairs of your wife and your children. As for 
those people, say nothing about them, as I say nothing 
about your relations. Appreciate my good manners 
and imitate them." 

"How can you say such things to me?" 

"I say them and I repeat them, and I am sorry that 
I am here." 

And I turned my back upon him, choking with the 
effort I was making to keep back my tears of rage. 

Then my father began to laugh, embarrassed and 
confused, trying to kiss me and to take me in his arms. 

"Come, Marie," he said, "let us make up; let us 
never speak of these things again. I will never speak 
of them to you, I give you my word of honor. ..." 

I resumed my former attitude without giving any 
sign of forgiveness or of friendliness, which made my 
father redouble his amiability. 

At Poltava my father is a king, but of what a fright- 
ful kingdon. We made the tour of the streets — 
deserted as those of Pompeii. 

We left Poltava in the same order as yesterday. 

. . . We had no sooner reached the open country 
than my father suddenly asked me : 

"Well, are we going to have a skirmish to-day, as we 
had yesterday?" 

"Just as you choose!" I answered. 

He took me brusquely in his arms, wrapped his cloak 
around me, and rested my head on his shoulder. 

I closed my eyes; that is my way of showing ten- 
derness. 

We remained thus for a few moments, 



H4 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 1876. 

Then I began to talk of foreign countries — of Rome, 
and of the pleasures of society, taking good care to 
make him understand that our position there is a good 
one; I spoke of Mgr. de Fallous, the Baron Visconti, 
and the Pope. I enlarged, then, on the society of 
Poltava. 

"To spend one's life losing money at cards," I ex- 
claimed; "to ruin one's-self in the heart of a province 
drinking champagne in taverns ; to lead a purely animal 
existence and let one's faculties rust in inaction. What- 
ever one does, one should always keep good company." 

"Come! you seem to want to insinuate that I keep 
bad company," he said, laughing. 

"I? No, indeed! I speak only in general terms; I 
allude to no one in particular." 

I dwelt so long upon the subject, that at last he asked 
me what a large apartment in Nice, in which one could 
give entertainments, would cost. 

"You know," he said, "if I should go settle down 
there for the winter, the position would be a different 
one." 

' ' Whose position ? " 

" That of the birds of the air," he answered, laughing, 
as if piqued. 

"My position?" I said. "Yes, that is true; but Nice 
is a disagreeable city. Why could you not come this 
winter to Rome?" 

"I? H'mlwell, h'm!" 

All the same, the first seed is sown, and it has fallen on 
good ground. What I fear is the influence of others. I 
must accustom this man to my society, render myself 
agreeable to him, necessary to him, so that my Aunt 

T may find a barrier raised between her brother 

and her evil influences. 

Wednesday f August 23 (August 11). — I have written 
almost as much in detail to mamma as I have written 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 115 

in my journal. That will do her more good than all the 
medicines in the world. I pretend to be enchanted, but 
I am not so, as yet. I have related everything exactly 
as it happened, but I am not sure of my success until 
the end of the story. In fine, we shall see; God is 
good. 

Pacha is my real cousin — the son of my father's sister. 
This man puzzles me. This morning, in speaking of my 
father, I remarked that children criticise their parents' 
actions, and when they marry and have children of their 
own, do the very things themselves they disapproved 
of in their parents. 

"This is perfectly true," he said; "but my children 
will not criticise me, for I shall never marry." 

After a moment's silence I said: "Every young per- 
son says the same thing." 

"Yes, but in my case it is different." 

"And why so?" 

"Because I am twenty-two years old, and I have 
never yet been in love; I have never cast a second 
glance at any woman. 

"That is quite natural. Before the age of twenty- 
two one has no right to fall in love." 

"What! and the boys who fall in love at fourteen or 
fifteen?" 

"That sentiment has nothing at all to do with love." 

"That may be so, but I am not like others. I am 
passionate; I am haughty, that is — I mean to say that 
I respect myself; and then " 

"But all those qualities you mention are good ones." 

"Good ones?" 

"Yes, of course." 

Afterwards he remarked, apropos of something I do 
not remember, that if his mother were to die he would 
lose his reason. 

" Yes, for a time; and then " 

"Oh, no; I should lose my reason; I know it." 



Il6 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

"For a time; every feeling yields eventually to newer 
impressions." 

"Then you deny the eternity of the feelings?" 

" Decidedly." 

"It is strange, Moussia," he said to me, "how quickly 
one forms an attachment when one is free from other 
ties. The day before yesterday I called you Maria 
Constantino vna; yesterday Mademoiselle Moussia, 
and to-day — " 

" Moussia, simply, as I told you to do." 

"It seems to me as if we had always lived together; 
your manners are so simple and engaging." 

"Are they not?" 

. . . My father was waiting for us in the colonnade. 

"Well, did I deceive you?" I asked. "Do I look 
badly in a riding-habit? Ask Pacha how I ride. Do I 
look well?" 

"Yes, very well — h'm; very well, indeed." 

He examined me with satisfaction. 

After all I do not regret having brought thirty gowns 
with me; my father is to be won over only through his 
vanity. 

At this moment M arrived, with his luggage and 

a servant. When he saluted me I responded with the 
customary compliments, and then went to change my 
dress, saying I would return. 

I returned attired in a gown of Oriental gauze, with a 
train two yards long, a silk bodice open in front, a la 
Louis XV., and fastened with a large white bow. The 
petticoat was in one piece, and the train was a square 
one. 

M spoke of dress, and admired mine. 

They call him stupid, yet he can talk on every sub- 
ject — music, art, science. It is true that it is I who do 
all the talking and he does nothing but answer, "You 
are perfectly right; it is quite true." 

I was silent about my studies, fearing to frighten him, 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 117 

but I was provoked into speaking of them at table. I 
used a Latin quotation, and discussed classic literature 
and the modern imitations of it with the doctor. 

They all cried out that I was wonderful; that there 
was nothing about which I could not talk — no subject 
of conversation in which I did not find myself at 
home. 

Papa made heroic efforts to conceal his pride. 
Finally a poulet aux truffes started a culinary discussion, 
during which I displayed a knowledge of gastronomy 

that made M open his mouth and eyes with still 

greater amazement. 

And then putting into practice my powers of so- 
phistry, I went on to give my views in regard to the 
advantages of good cooking, maintaining that it made 
men virtuous. 

After dinner we went upstairs. The rooms are very 
large, especially the ball-room; the piano was put in it 
only yesterday. 

I played. Poor Kapitanenko made the most des- 
perate gestures to prevent Paul from talking. 

"Mon Dieu" cried the good man, "I forget while I 
listen that I have been vegetating here in a province 
for the last six years; I begin to live again!" 

When I had finished "Le Ruisseau" they all kissed 
my hand. 

Papa sat on a sofa with half-closed eyes. The Prin- 
cess worked on at her embroidery without speaking. 
She is a good sort of woman, though. 

When the others were gone I said to my father: 
"This is the way we shall live after we leave Russia. 
You will come with me?" 

" I will think of it; yes — perhaps." 

Friday, August 25 (August 13). — My father proposed 
an excursion to Pavlovska, his other estate. He is very 
good to me, but to-day I was extremely nervous, and 



Ii8 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

scarcely spoke; the least attempt at speech threatened 
to make me burst into tears. 

Thinking, however, of the effect this complete ab- 
sence of pomp and festivity would have upon mamma, 
I told my father I should like to see something of society 
and amusements. 

"Very well," he answered; "if you wish it, it shall 
be done. Shall I take you to see the wife of the 
Prefect?" 

"Yes." 

"Very well; it shall be done." 

Reassured on this point, I was able to inspect the 
work on the farm with a tranquil spirit, and even to 
enter into all its details — something I found not at all 
amusing, but which I thought I might make use of in 
the future to astonish some one by my knowledge on the 
subject, mixing up a mot de connoisseur in such matters 
as the planting of barley and the good points of wheat 
with a quotation from Shakespeare or a discourse on 
the Platonic philosophy. 

You see that I try to derive some profit from every- 
thing. 

Pacha procured an easel for me, and near dinner- 
time I received two large canvases sent me from 
Poltava by M . 

"How do you like M ?" asked papa. 

I told him. 

"Well," said Pacha, "I did not like him at all, at 
first, and now I like him very much indeed." 

"And me — did you like me at first?" I asked him. 

"You? Why?" 

"Come, tell me." 

"Very well, yes; I liked you; I expected to find you 
different; I thought you did not speak Russian; that 
you were affected, and — and, now, you see how it 
is!" 

"It is very well." 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 119 

Pacha grew enthusiastic, to the point of asking me to 
give him my likeness to wear in a locket all his life. 

"For I love and honor you as I do no one else," he 
cried. 

The Princess opened her eyes wide, and I laughed, 
and offered my cousin my hand to kiss. 

At first he refused, coloring deeply, but ended by 
obeying me. 

A strange and untamed nature! This afternoon I 
spoke of my contempt for humanity. 

"Ah, that is how it is!" he cried. "I am, then, only 
a dastard — a wretch!" 

And, flushed and trembling, he left the room hastily. 

Saturday, August 26 (August 14). — The country is 
killing! 

I with surprising rapidity sketched two portraits 
to-day — my father's and Paul's. The whole thing 
occupied thirty-five minutes. 

My father, who thinks my talent for painting some- 
thing to be truly proud of, examined them and was 
pleased. As for me, I was enchanted; for to paint is 
to do something toward furthering one of my aims in 
life. Every hour not spent in that, or in coquetry, 
presses like a weight upon my head. To read? No, 
to act ! 

This morning my father entered my apartment. 
After a few commonplace phrases, Paul having left 
the room, he suddenly grew silent, and as I felt he had 
something to say to me that I too wished to speak of, 
I remained purposely silent also, as much for the 
pleasure of seeing his embarrassment and hesitation 
as in order to avoid broaching the subject myself. 

"H'm — well, then, — what do you say?" he asked. 

"I, papa? Nothing." 

"H'm! — you said — h'm! — that you wished me to go 
with you to Rome, — h'm! And how, then?" 



120 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

"Very simply. " 

"But— " 

He hesitated, moving my combs and brushes about 
from one place to another. 

"But if I should go with you — h'm ! and your mamma 
— she might not come. And then — you see if she did 
not come — h'm! what then?" 

"Mamma? Mamma will come." 

"Ah!" 

"Besides, mamma will do anything I want her to do. 
She exists no longer; there is only I." 

Then, visibly relieved, he put a number of questions 
to me, as to the manner in which mamma passed her 
time — in regard to an infinity of things, in fact. 

The Cardinal is dying. 

Despicable man ! (The nephew, I mean.) 

Wednesday, August 30 {August 18.) — I dreamed that 

Pietro A was dead. I approached his bier and 

placed around his neck a rosary of topazes, to which 
was attached a cross of gold. No sooner had I done 
this, however, than I saw that the dead man was not 
Pietro. 

To dream of death is a sign of marriage, I believe. 

A young man was in love with a girl who loved him in 
return. After some time he married another, and when 
he was asked the reason of his fickleness, he answered : 

"She kissed me, — consequently she has either kissed 
others, or she will kiss them." 

"He was quite right," said my uncle Alexander. 
And every man reasons in the same way. 

A mode of reasoning which is in the highest degree 
unjust, but that does not prevent me being now shut 
up in my room, beside myself with rage. 

I took it for granted that they meant me. But think 
of the cause I had for the supposition. 

Grant me, Heaven, the power to forget! O my 

/ 



i8 7 6.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 121 

God have I then committed a crime, that thou shouldst 
punish me in this way? 

That which neither education, nor books, nor advice 
could teach me, experience has taught me. 

Friday, September 8 {August 27). — Despicable fear, I 
shall conquer thee at last. Did I not take it into my 
head yesterday to be afraid of a gun? It is true that 
Paul had loaded it, and that I did not know how large 
a charge of powder he might have used, and that I was 
unacquainted with the gun. It might have gone off, 
and that would be a stupid death; or, I might be dis- 
figured for life. 

So much the worse! It is only the first step that is 
difficult. Yesterday I fired at fifty paces, and to-day 
I fired without any fear whatever. May God forgive 
me, but I think I hit the mark every time. 

Saturday, September 9 {August 28). — The days are 
passing; I am losing precious time, and in the best years 
of my life. 

What ennui! Never a witty saying! Never a pol- 
ished phrase! Unhappily I am a pedant, and I love 
to hear ancient literature and the sciences discussed. 
Find me any of this here if you can! Cards and 
nothing else! I would shut myself up and read, but 
since my object in coming here was to make myself 
loved, that would be a bad way to set about doing it. . . . 

Thursday, September 2 (14). — Here I am still in this 
detestable city of Poltava! I am more familiar with 
Kharkoff . I spent a year there before going to Vienna. 
I remember all the streets and all the shops. This 
afternoon at the station I recognized a physician who 
had attended grandmamma, and I went over and spoke 
to him. 

I long to return — there! "Knowest thou the land 



122 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

where the orange-tree blooms?" Not Nice, but Italy. 

Gavronzi, Sunday September 17. — While waiting for 
my future fame I went to a hunt, arrayed in masculine 
attire, and with a game-bag slung around my shoulder. 

We set out, my father, Paul, the Prince, and I, at 
about two o'clock in a char-a-banc. 

Now I find myself without a word with which to 
describe our excursion, not knowing the name of — in 
fine, of anything pertaining to the chase. The bram- 
bles, the reeds, the shrubs, the trees, were all so thick 
that we could hardly make our way through them. 
The branches brushed against us on all sides, the air 
was deliciously pure, there was no sun, but a fine rain 
fell such as is the delight of hunters — when they feel 
warm. 

We walked, walked, walked. 

I made the tour of a small lake, armed with my gun, 
and ready to fire, expecting at every instant to see a 
duck rise. 

But — nothing ! I was already asking myself whether 
I should fire at the lizards that hopped about my feet, 
or at Michel, who walked behind me, and whose admir- 
ing gaze I could feel fixed upon me in my masculine 
attire. 

I chose the happy medium and fired at a crow (killing 
him instantly) that was perched upon the topmost 
branch of an oak, suspecting nothing, the less so as his 
attention was arrested by my father and Michel, who 
had thrown themselves on the ground in a clear space 
in the wood. 

I pulled out its tail-feathers and made myself an 
aigrette. 

The others did not shoot once; they did nothing but 
walk. 

Paul killed a thrush, and that was the whole of the 
chase. 



i8 7 6.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 123 

Friday, September 22. — Rome! the Pineio, rising like 
an island from the plain traversed by aqueducts; the 
Porta del Popolo; the obelisk, the churches of Cardinal 
Gastolo, at either side of the entrance to the Corso: 
the Corso itself, the Palace of the Republic of Venice; 
and those dark and narrow streets, those palaces black 
with the dust of centuries, the ruins of a little temple 
to Minerva, and finally the Coliseum. I think I see 
them all before me now; I close my eyes and I walk 
through the streets of the city, I visit the ruins, I 
see — 

It is not with me as it is with those who say "Out of 
sight, out of mind." A thing is no sooner out of my 
sight than it acquires for me a double value; I dwell 
upon its minutest details, I admire it, I love it. 

I have traveled a great deal; I have seen many cities : 
but two of them only have raised me to the highest 
pitch of enthusiasm. 

The first is Baden-Baden, where I spent two sum- 
mers when I was a child; I can still remember those 
delicious gardens. The second is Rome — 

I love Rome, only Rome. 

And St. Peter's! St. Peter's, where a ray of light 
entering through the roof falls upon the floor and casts 
there shadows and tracks of light as regular as the archi- 
tecture of its columns and altars — a ray of light that, by 
the aid of shadows only, creates in the midst of this 
marble temple a temple of light. 

With closed eyes I transport myself in imagination to 
Rome, and it is night. And to-morrow the hippo- 
potamus will come from Poltava, and I must make 
myself beautiful, and I shall be beautiful. 

The country has done me a great deal of good; my 
complexion was never fresher nor more transparent 
than now. * 

Rome ! — and I will not go to Rome ! Why ? Because 
I will not go. And if you knew what it has cost me to 



124 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

come to this resolution, you would pity me. Indeed 
I am already in tears. 

Wednesday, September 27. — The first touch of cold 
weather has compelled me to make use of my fur coat. 
Kept from the air as it has been, it has preserved the 
odor of Rome, and this odor — this garment ! — 

Have you ever observed that it needs but a perfume, 
a strain of music, a color to transport one in imagina- 
tion to any particular place? To spend the winter in 
Paris? — oh, no! 

Thursday, September 28. — I cry with ennui. I wish 
to leave this place. I am unhappy here. I am losing 
my time, my life ! My faculties are rusting in inaction. 
I am exasperated — yes, that is the word. 

Friday, September 29. — I was in despair yesterday, 
for it seemed to me as if I were chained down here for 
life. The thought of this exasperated me, and I wept 
bitter tears. 

Tuesday, October 17. — . . . " Pacha,' ' I said, "what 
would you do to the person who had wounded me — 
cruelly wounded me?" 

"I would kill him," he responded quite simply. 

"You use very fine words, but you are laughing, 
Pacha." 

"And you?" 

"I have been called a devil, a hurricane, a demon, 
a tempest; I am all this since yesterday." . . . 

When I grew a little calmer I began to give expres- 
sion to the most contradictory opinions regarding 
love. 

My cousin has thoughts ideally lofty, and Dante 
might have borrowed from him his divine love for 
Beatrice. 



1876J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 125 

"I shall doubtless fall in love," he said, "but I will 
never marry." 

"What is that you are saying, young man? Do 
you know that one deserves a beating for such 
words?" 

"Because," he continued, "I desire my love to en- 
dure forever — at least in my imagination — in all its 
divine purity and strength. Marriage often kills love, 
just as it may give it being." 

"Oh! oh!" I cried indignantly. 

"He is quite right," said his mother, while the bash- 
ful orator blushed and grew confused, ashamed of his 
own words. . 

All this time I was looking at myself in the glass, 
cutting the hair over my forehead, which had grown 
too long. 

"There," I said to the "young man," throwing him a 
handful of reddish gold hair, "I will give you that as a 
remembrance." 

Not only did he take it, but his voice trembled and 
he looked agitated as he did so; and when I would have 
taken it from him he gave me a pleading look, like a 
child who has got hold of a toy that appears to him a 
treasure, and that he fears to lose. 

I gave my cousin "Corinne" to read, after which he 
went away. 

Corinne and Lord Melvil were walking across the 
bridge of Saint Ange. "It was in crossing this bridge," 
said Lord Melvil, "returning from the Capitol, that 
my thoughts for the first time dwelt seriously on you." 
I do not know what there is in those words to affect 
me so powerfully, but when I read them yesterday they 
actually made me feel faint. And every time I come 
across them, on opening the book, I have the same 
feeling. 

Has not some one said words like those to me? 

There is, in some simple words, a sort of magic, per- 



126 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. [1876. 

haps on account of their very simplicity. Or is their 
power derived rather from association? 

Monday, October 23. — Yesterday we got into a coupe 
drawn by six horses and set out for Poltava. 

The journey was a gay one. The tears shed on leav- 
ing the paternal roof caused a general display of feeling, 
and Pacha declared he was madly in love. 

" I swear that it is true," he cried, "but I will not say 
with whom." 

"If it is not with me," I said, "you shall receive my 
malediction." 

I complained that my feet were cold; he took off his 
pelisse and wrapped it about them. 

II Pacha, swear to me that you will tell me the truth." 
"I swear." 

"With whom are you in love?" 

"Why do you ask?" 

"It concerns me to know; we are relations. And 
then, I am curious; and then — and then — it amuses 
me." 

"You see, it amuses you!" 

"Without doubt, but you must not take the word in a 
bad sense; you are a very good fellow." 

"You see you are laughing; you would ridicule me 
afterwards." 

"Here you have my hand and word that I will not 
ridicule you." But there was a smile upon my face 
while I spoke. 

"With whom are you in love?" 

"With you." 

"Truly?" 

"On my word of honor. I am not given to many 
words, as they say in novels. Must I fall upon my 
knees and talk a lot of nonsense to prove it to you?" 

"Oh, my dear fellow, you are following in the foot- 
steps of some one I know." 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 127 

"As you will, Moussia; but I am speaking the truth." 

"But that is folly." 

"Oh, not a doubt of it, that is what pleases me! I 
love without hope, which is what I needed. I needed 
to suffer, to torment myself, and then, when the object 
of my passion is gone away, I shall have something to 
dream about, something to regret. I shall endure tor- 
tures, that will be my happiness." 

"Foolish youth!" 

"Foolish youth? Foolish youth? " 

"But we are brother and sister." 

"No, cousins." 

"It is the same thing." 

"Oh, no!" 

Then I set myself to work to tease my lover — always 
the lover I do not want. 

Tuesday, October 24. — I never had a childhood, but 
the house where I lived when I was a child, if not dear 
to me, possesses an attraction for me. I am familiar 
with everything and everybody there. The servants, 
grown old in our service, are surprised to see me so tall, 
and I should enjoy many sweet recollections if it were 
not for the anxieties that poison my mind. . . . 

My Agrippine gown had a great success. I walked 
up and down while I sang to conquer the timidity that 
always seizes me when I sing. 

Why write? What have I to recount? 

I must bore people to death. — Patience! 

Sixtus V. was only a swineherd, and Sixtus V. be- 
came Pope. 

Sunday, October 29 (17). — It is not probable that I 
shall ever again see TcherniakofL I spent a long time 
wandering from room to room, and found a tender 
pleasure in doing so. People laugh at those who asso- 
ciate sentiment with pictures and articles of furniture, 



128 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

and who bid them farewell on going away; who find 
friends in those pieces of wood and stuff that through 
their association with us receive, as it were, something 
of our life, and seem to be a part of our existence. 

Laugh then, if you will! The finest feelings are the 
most easily ridiculed, and where mockery enters, del- 
icacy of feeling disappears. 

Wednesday, November 1. — When Paul had gone out I 
found myself alone with that excellent and admirable 
being called Pacha. 

"Then you like me still?" I said. 

"Ah, Moussia, how would you have me speak to 
you?" 

"Quite naturally. Why this reserve? Why not be 
simple and frank? I will not laugh at you, and if I 
should laugh, it is only because I am nervous — nothing 
else. Then you no longer like me?" 

"Why do you say that?" 

"Oh, because — because — I don't remember now." 

"One cannot account for those things." 

"If you no longer like me, you may say so; you are 
frank enough for that, and I — indifferent enough. 
Come, is it my nose ? Or my eyes ? ' ' 

"One can see that you have never been in love." 

"Why do you say that?" 

"Because from the moment one begins to look crit- 
ically at the features — to ask whether the nose is more 
perfect than the eyes, or the eyes more perfect than 
the mouth — it is evident that one has never been in 
love." 

"That is quite true. Who told it to you?" 

"No one." 

"Ulysses?" 

" No," he replied, " one can't tell what it is one likes — 
I will be frank with you — it is your air, your manner, 
above all your disposition." 



1876.J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 129 

"It is amiable, is it not?" 

"Yes, unless you are acting a part, and it would be 
impossible to do that at all times." 

4 ' Another truth . And my face ? ' ' 

"It has beauties — It is a classic face." 

"Yes, I was aware of that. What more?" 

"What more? There are women one sees passing by 
that one calls beautiful, but that one does not give a 
second thought to. But there are faces — that are 
beautiful and charming, that create a lasting impres- 
sion, that produce a sensation that is delightful and 
agreeable." 

1 ' Precisely so. What else ? ' ' 

1 ' How you question ! ' ' 

" I want to avail myself of this opportunity to learn a 
little of what people think of me. I shall not easily find 
another whom I can question in this way without com- 
promising myself. And how did all that take pos- 
session of you? Did it come to you suddenly, or by 
degrees?" 

"By degrees." 

"H'm, h'm." 

"That is the best way; the impression is a more 
lasting one. What you conceive a sudden affection 
for you cease to care for as suddenly, while the affec- 
tion that comes by degrees " 

"Endures forever." 

"Yes, forever." 

Our conversation lasted a long time, and I began to 
entertain considerable respect for this man whose 
affection for me is as reverent as a religion, and who has 
never profaned its purity by a word or a look. 

"Do you like to talk of love?" I asked him suddenly. 

"No; to speak of it with indifference is a profana- 
tion." 

"It amuses one, though." 

"Amuses!" he cried. 



130 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

"Ah, Pacha, life is a wretched affair. Have I ever 
been in love? 

"Never," he answered. 

"Why do you think so?" 

"Because of your character. You could love only 
through a caprice — to-day a man, to-morrow a gown, 
the day after a cat." 

" I am delighted when people think that of me. And 
you, my dear brother, have you ever been in love?" 

" I have told you so ; you know very well ; I have told 
you so." 

"No, no, it is not that I am speaking of," I said 
quickly; "but before." 

"Never." 

"That is strange. Sometimes I think that I am 
deceived in you, and that I take you for something 
better than you are." 

We talked for a while on indifferent subjects, and then 
I went to my room. Here is' a man — no, let me not 
think too well of him; the disappointment would be 
too disagreeable. He told me a short time since that 
he was going to become a soldier. 

"To fight for glory, I tell you frankly," he added. 

Well, these words, uttered out of the depths of his 
heart, half-timidly, half-daringly, and true as truth 
itself, have given me extraordinary pleasure. It may 
be that I flatter myself, but I imagine that ambition 
was a feeling hitherto unknown to him. I think I see 
now the effect produced upon him by a few words I let 
fall in regard to ambition, one day, while I was combing 
my hair. The young man suddenly rose to his feet 
and began to walk up and down the floor. 

"I must do something; I must do something," he 
cried. 

Tuesday, November 7. — I have broken my looking- 
glass! That portends some misfortune. This super- 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 131 

stitious thought freezes me with terror. I look out of 
the window, and all I see is frozen too. It is long since 
I beheld a scene like this. 

Pacha, with the eagerness natural to the young to 
show new-comers novelties, ordered a little sleigh to be 
got ready, and took me out in triumph for a drive. 
The sleigh is very impertinent to call itself by that 
name, for it is nothing more than a few miserable pieces 
of wood nailed together, stuffed with hay, and covered 
with carpet. The horse, being quite close to us, threw 
the snow into our faces, as well as into my sleeves, my 
slippers, and my eyes. 

"You asked me to go with you to Rome," said the 
young man, suddenly. 

"Yes, and not through a caprice. You would confer 
a favor upon me by^coming — and you will not! You 
do nothing for me; for whom, then, would you do any- 
thing?" 

"Oh, you know very well why I cannot go." 

"I do not." 

"Because — I love you." 

"But you would render me so great a service by 
coming!" 

"I render you a service?" 

"Yes!" 

"No, I cannot go. I will think of you from afar. 
And if you knew," he continued, in gentle and touching 
accents, "if you knew what I sometimes suffer, — one 
must possess as much moral courage as I do to appear 
always indifferent and always calm. When I see you 
no longer " 

"You will forget me." 

"Never." 

"But— in that case?" 

My voice had lost all trace of raillery. I was touched. 

"I don't know," he answered. "I only know that 
this state of things makes me too miserable." 



132 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

"Poor fellow !" 

I quickly recovered myself. This pity from me was 
an insult. 

Why is it so delightful to listen to the confession 
of the sufferings of which one is the cause! The more 
unhappy any one is for love of you the happier you are. 

"Come with us," I said. "My father does not wish 
to take Paul. Come with us." 

11 T ** 

"You cannot — I know it. Enough! I will ask you 
no more." 

I assumed an inquisitorial air, like one who is pre- 
paring to be amused by the confession of a folly. 

"Then I have the honor of being your first love," I 
said. ' ' Admirable ! — You are a deceiver. ' ' 

"Because my voice does not change its tone, and 
because I do not shed tears? I have an iron will, that 
is all." 

"And I wanted to give you — something." 

"What?" 

"This." 

And I showed him a little image of the Virgin sus- 
pended around my neck by a white ribbon. 

"Give it to me." 

"You do not deserve it." 

"Ah, Moussia," he cried with a sigh, "I assure you 
that I do deserve it. What I feel for you is like the 
attachment of a dog for its master, a devotion without 
limit." 

"Come nearer, young man, and I will give you my 
benediction." 

* ' Your benediction ? ' ' 

"Yes. If I have made you talk in this way, it is 
because I desire to know what those who are in love 
feel, for suppose I should take it into my head to fall 
in love some day, I should want to recognize the symp- 
toms," 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 133 

"Give me that image,*' said the young man, without 
removing his eyes from it. 

He knelt on the chair on the back of which I was lean- 
ing, and tried to take the image in his hand, but I 
stopped him. 

"No, no, around your neck," I said. 

And I put the ribbon around his neck, warm as it still 
was from contact with mine. 

"Oh!" he cried, "thanks for that! thank you! thank 
you!" 

And he kissed my hand of his own accord for the first 
time. 

Wednesday, November 8. — This evening I sat down at 
the piano to play the "Reading of the Letter of Venus," 
a charming morceau from "La Belle Helene." 

But "La Belle Helene" is a ravishing opera. Offen- 
bach had only just begun his career when he wrote it, 
and had not yet debased his genius by writing insig- 
nificant operettas. 

I played for a long time — I cannot now remember 
what — but something, I remember, that was slow and 
passionate, tender and charming, as only Mendels- 
sohn's "Songs Without Words," well rendered, can be. 

Afterwards I drank four cups of tea, while we talked 
about music. 

"Music exercises a powerful influence over me," said 
Pacha. "I feel something altogether strange while I 
listen to it — it produces a — sentimental effect upon me, 
and I say then things that I should never dare to say 
otherwise." 

"Music is a traitress; Pacha; distrust her, she will 
cause you to do a great many things you would not do in 
your calmer moments. She seizes hold of you, twines 
herself around you, makes you lose your senses — and 
then it is terrible!" 

Afterward I spoke of Rome and of Alexis, the clair- 



134 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

voyant. Pacha listened and sighed, in his corner; 
and when he approached the light the expression on his 
countenance told me more plainly than all the words in 
the world could have done, what the poor fellow suff 
fered. 

(Observe this ferocious vanity, this eagerness to have 
proof of the ravages one has caused! I am a vulgar 
coquette, or — no, I am a woman, nothing more.) 

"We are rather melancholy this evening," I said 
softly. 

"Yes," he answered; "your playing, and then — I 
don't know what the matter is, but I think I have a 
fever." 

"Go to sleep, my friend," I said; "I am going to my 
room; but first help me to carry my books." 

Thursday, November 9. — My sojourn here will at least 
have given me an opportunity of becoming acquainted 
with the splendid literature of my country. But what 
do her poets and writers speak of? The South. 

And first let me mention Gogol, our humoristic star. 
His description of Rome made me shed tears, and sigh; 
one can form no idea of him without reading his works. 

Some day they will be translated; and those who 
have the happiness to have seen Rome will then under- 
stand my emotion. 

Oh, when shall I leave this country? — gray, cold, 
arid, even in summer, even in the sunshine. The foliage 
is sickly, and the sky is less blue than — in the South. 

Friday, November 10. — I have been reading until just 
now. I am disgusted with my diary — troubled, dis- 
heartened. 

Rome. — I can say nothing more. I remained fully 
five minutes with my pen in my hand, without knowing 
what to write, my heart was so full. But the time is 
approaching, and I shall see A again. The thought 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 135 

of seeing A again fills me with terror. And yet I 

believe that I do not love him, I am even certain of it. 
But that memory, my chagrin, my uncertainty regard- 
ing the future, the fear of being slighted! A ! 

How often this name returns to my thoughts and how 
hateful it is to me! 

You think I wish to die ? Fools that you are ! I love 
life as it is, and the vexations, the tortures, the tears 
that God has sent me — I bless them and I am 
happy. 

In fact, I have so accustomed myself to the idea of 
being unhappy, that when I think over my troubles 
alone in my room, and far away from the world, I say 
to myself that perhaps after all I am not so much to be 
pitied. 

Why weep then? 

Saturday, November 11. — This morning at eight 
o'clock I left Gavronzi, and not without some slight 
emotion caused — by regret at leaving the place? No, 
by the interruption of a habit. 

The servants were all assembled in the courtyard, 
and I gave to each one of them some money, and to the 
housekeeper a gold bracelet. 

Poltava, Wednesday, November 15. — Last Sunday I 
set out on my homeward journey, accompanied by my 
father. During my last two days in Russia, I saw a 
good deal of Prince Michel and the others. 

There was no one at the station to see me off but the 
members of my own family, but there were several 
strangers there who looked with curiosity at our 
"traps." 

Alexander, Paul, and Pacha entered the compart- 
ment with us; the ringing of the third bell announced 
the departure of the train, and they all crowded around 
me. 



136 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF [1876. 

"Paul! Paul!" cried Pacha, "let me at least say 
good-by to her!" 

"Let him come here," I said. 

He kissed my hand, and I kissed him on the cheek, 
near the eye. It is the custom in Russia, but I have 
never been able to approve of it. 

We were only waiting for the bell to sound, and it did 
not delay long, 

"Well?" I said. 

"There is still time enough," said Pacha. 

The train began to move slowly, and Pacha began to 
talk very fast, but without knowing a word of what he 
was saying. 

"Good-by, good-by," I cried, "jump off." 

"Yes, farewell, good-by." 

And he jumped on to the platform after having once 
more kissed my hand — the kiss of a faithful and obe- 
dient dog. 

"Come, come," cried my father from our compart- 
ment, for we were in the passageway of the coach. 

I returned to him, but I was so troubled at the spec- 
tacle of grief of which I was the cause, that I lay down 
at once and closed my eyes to think and dream at my 
ease. 

Poor Pacha! Dear and noble boy! If I regret any- 
thing I leave behind me in Russia, it is this heart of 
gold, this loyal character, this upright spirit. 

Am I really troubled? Yes. As if it were possible 
to be so insensible as not to feel a just pride in pos- 
sessing such a friend. 

Saturday, November 18. — This morning at five, we 
entered Paris. At the Grand Hotel we found a dis- 
patch from mamma waiting for us. We engaged a 
suite of rooms on the first floor. I took a bath while I 
was waiting for mamma. But I am so discouraged 
that nothing affects me any more. 



1S76.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF, 137 

She cameat last with Dina. Dina, happy and tran- 
quil, and still continuing to play her part of Sister of 
Charity, of guardian angel. You may imagine I was 
never before so embarrassed. Papa and mamma! 
I didn't know where to hide myself. There were sev- 
eral collisions, but nothing to cause uneasiness. 

We all left the hotel together — mamma, papa, Dina 
and I. We dined together and went to the theatre 
afterward. I kept in the darkest corner of the box, 
my eyes so heavy with sleep that I could hardly 
see. 

I slept with mamma, and instead of affectionate 
words, after so long a separation, there escaped from 
my lips only a torrent of complaints, which soon ceased, 
however, for I fell asleep. 

Monday, November 21. — After dinner we went to 
hear "Paul and Virginia,' 1 the new opera of V. Masse\ 
which is so highly spoken of. 

It is now two o'clock in the morning. Mamma, who 
thinks of nothing but my welfare, had a long talk with 
my father. But my father answered with pleasan- 
tries, or with revoltingly indifferent speeches. At last 
he said that he could very well understand the step I 
had taken; that even mamma's enemies could see 
nothing in it but what was very natural, and that it 
would be proper that his daughter, when she reached 
the age of sixteen, should have a father to chaperon 
her. He promised, therefore, to come to Rome, as we 
proposed to him to do. If I could only believe it! 

November 26. — My father is gone ! For the first time 
in four months I can breathe freely. 

November 28. — Mamma has taken me to see Dr. 
Fauvel, who examined my throat with his new laryngo- 
scope ; he says that I have catarrh, chronic laryngitis, 



138 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

etc. (which, I daresay, is the truth, seeing how bad a 
state my throat is in), and that it would require six 
weeks' energetic treatment to cure me. Which would 
oblige us to pass the winter in Paris, alas ! 

Friday, December 1. — Yesterday we left Paris. 

Nice, Saturday, December 2. — My aunt herself 
brought me my coffee. I had some trunks unpacked, 
and I was myself again for the first time since my 
journey. In Russia I missed the sun. In Paris, my 
gowns. . . . Going down into the garden I found 
there M. Pelican and his doctor, Broussais; Ivanoff, 
grandpapa's oculist; General Wolf; General Bihovitz, 
and the Anitchkoffs besides. I had to show myself, 
to satisfy my two mothers, who are not pleased to see 
me growing so fat. See what happiness! But I 
would leave them all to be back in France, painting 
the women of the people again. 

1 After so long an absence the sky of Nice transports 
me. And I feel that I could dance for joy, breathing 
this pure air and looking at this transparent sky. The 
sea, delicately silvered by a'sun hidden behind clouds of 
a soft warm gray, the brilliant verdure — How beautiful 
it is and how good it is to live in this paradise ! I went 
to walk in the Promenade without remembering that 
my head was bare and that there were many people 
passing by. Then I went back to put on a hat and to 
take my aunt and Bihovitz out with me. When we 
had walked as far as the Pont du Midi I was seized by 
an unconquerable fit of sadness, and we returned. 

Monday, December 11. — I am every day more and 
more in love with painting. I haven't left the house 
all day. I played, and that excited my brain and my 
heart. Two hours of conversation on the history of 
Russia with grandpapa were required to bring me back 



1876.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 139 

to my normal condition. Grandpapa is a living ency- 
clopedia. 

Monday, December 18. — I was wakened yesterday by a 
card from my father with these words: "I am at the 
Hotel de Luxembourg with my sisters; come at once 
if you can." 

By the advice of my mothers, I answered this invi- 
tation in person, at one o'clock precisely, and before 
alighting I sent to ask if it would be convenient for him 
to receive me. For answer, my Aunt Helene and my 
father, to my annoyance, came to the carriage, and 
conducted me very affectionately to their rooms. 

Aunt Helene and the Princess, without appearing to 
interfere, spoke to me of the Cardinal and advised me 
to go to Rome in search of his nephew and his money. 

"The poor young man," I said, "is away." 

"Where?" 

"InServia." 

"No, he is in Rome." 

"Perhaps he has returned, then, for there is no 
longer any fighting. I dined yesterday with a Russian 
Volunteer, who has just come from Servia." 

To these insinuations I answered angrily, threaten- 
ingly, even. For, although it is true that I am a 
defenseless creature, whom it is cowardly to calumniate, 
it is also true that I will avenge myself valiantly when 
I am attacked. And for an excellent reason, because 
I have nothing to fear. 

San Remo, Saturday, December 23. — Shall I take my 
father with me? He consents to come, but with 
mamma, for two days. While waiting for mamma, to 
whom I have telegraphed to come, I am spending a 
few hours at the Villa Rocca, with the Princess Eristoff . 
My Aunt Romanoff, heroic creature, is staying alone, 
doing nothing, at the hotel. Naturally she does not 
care to mix with the people I am intimate with. But 



140 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1876. 

see what a role this woman plays for my caprice! I 
adore her! 

Monday, December 25. — Yesterday we left San 
Remo, my father, my mother and I. What were my 
thoughts during the journey? Why, charming reveries, 
airy fantasies filled my mind to the exclusion of every- 
thing else, and made for me, as usual, a life detached 
from human things. 

From early morning I was at the car window, so 
that I might not lose sight for a single instant of the 
Campagna of Rome. Why can I not give expression 
to all the beautiful thoughts it suggests to me and that 
so many others have expressed so charmingly ! 

I was so busy recalling each familiar place as we 
passed them that the front car of our train was under 
the glass roof of the station while I was still seeking 
for the populated roof of St. John of Lateran. The 
Spanish Ambassadress was at the station, to meet 
some ladies. I turned aside my head when I saw that 
she recognized me. I was ashamed of having come to 
Rome. I felt that I was regarded there as an intruder. 
We went to the same hotel, we had the same apartment 
as before. I mounted the stairs and leaned against the 
newel-post at the corner of the banister, as I had leaned 
against it that other evening. I cast a regretful look 
at the door at the head of the staircase, and I chose for 
mine the red damask room — will it be believed? — with 
the thought of Pietro in my mind. 

Wednesday, December 27. — Mamma had been just 
speaking about Rossi's death, when that amiable lob- 
ster entered the room caracoling backward. 

" Well," he said, after the first salutations, "that poor 
Pietro A has lost his uncle." 

"Yes, the poor fellow. Has he been left anything?" 

"Yes, the table silver." 



I877-] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 141 

The merriment was general. After a time I asked 
Rossi what people had been saying. We spoke in 
Italian. We talked together for some time and I 
became convinced that nobody attaches any impor- 
tance to the matter. 

"No one thought of him in connection with you, M 
said Rossi; "he is a poor young man without either 

fortune or position. At first, people thought In 

any case you have given him a check and perhaps he 
will now turn over a new leaf, that is to say, he will 
reform." 

"He is utterly lost, then?" 

"Oh! no, poor boy; he suffers a great deal " 



1877. 

Nice, Wednesday, January 17. — When shall I know, 
then, what this passion called love is, of which people 
talk so much? 

I could have loved A , but now I despise him. 

The Duke of H I loved extravagantly when I was 

a child — a love due to the effect produced on an excitable 
imagination by the wealth, the name, and the eccen- 
tricities of the man. 

Tuesday, January 23. — Last night I was seized by a 
fit of despair that found utterance in moans, and that 
finally drove me to throw the dining-room clock into 
the sea. Dina ran after me, suspecting some sinister 
design on my part, but I threw nothing into the sea 
except the clock. It was a bronze one — a Paul, with- 
out the Virginia — in a very becoming hat, and with a 
fishing-rod in his hand. Dina came back with me into 



142 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1877. 

my room, and seemed to be very much amused about 
the clock. I laughed, too. 
Poor clock ! 

Thursday, February 1. — Mamma and I went out for 
an airing. On reaching home I sat down to read Livy. 
The heroes of antiquity, the classic folds of the toga, the 
Capitol, the dome, the masked ball, the Pincio — Oh, 
Rome! 

Rome, Thursday, February 8. — I fell asleep at Vinti- 
mille, and only woke up, mind and body, when we 
arrived at Rome. Against my will I was obliged to 
remain there till evening, as the train for Naples does 
not leave till 10 o'clock. A whole day in Rome! 

At twenty minutes past ten we left Rome. I fell 
asleep, and we are now at Naples. My sleep was not 
so sound, however, as to prevent my hearing an ill- 
tempered passenger complaining to the conductor of 
the presence of Prater in the coach. The gallant con- 
ductor took the part of our dog. 

But here is Naples. Does it happen to you as it 
does to me? On nearing a great and beautiful city I 
grow restless, my heart palpitates; I feel as if I should 
like to clasp the city in my embrace. 

It took us more than an hour to reach the Hotel du 
Louvre. There was an obstruction in the way — what 
cries, and what confusion ! 

The women here have enormous heads; they look 
like the women they exhibit along with the tigers, ser- 
pents, and other animals, at the menageries. 

In Rome I like only what is old; at Naples there is 
nothing to admire but what is new. 

Naples, Monday, February 26. — I continued my 
excursions to-day. We visited San Martino, an 
ancient monastery. I have never seen anything more 



1877.J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 143 

interesting. Museums, as a general thing, give one a 
chill. That of San Martino attracts and charms. The 
antique carriage of the Syndic, and the coach of 
Charles III., enraptured me; and those corridors, with 
their mosaic floors, those ceilings with their magnificent 
moldings! The church and the chapels are something 
marvelous. As they are not large, every detail of the 
workmanship can be fully appreciated. Polished mar- 
bles, precious stones, mosaics on all sides, overhead 
and underfoot, on the ceiling as well as on the floor! 
With the exception of those of Guido Reni and of 
Spagnoletto, the pictures are the most remarkable I 
I have ever seen: the patiently wrought works of Fra 
Buenaventura, the ancient porcelains of Capo-di- 
Monte, the portraits on silk, and a painting on glass 
representing the story of Potiphar's wife. The court- 
yard of white marble, with its sixty columns, is of rare 
beauty. 

Our guide told us that there are but five monks 
remaining in the monastery — three brothers and two 
laymen, who dwell somewhere upstairs, in a neglected 
wing of the building. 

We went up into a sort of tower, with two balconies 
suspended one above the other, and I felt as one might 
feel looking over the edge of a precipice; the view is 
distractingly beautiful. One sees the mountains, the 
villas, and the plains of Naples through a sort of blue 
mist that is only an illusion of the senses, produced by 
distance. 

"What is going on at Naples to-day?" I asked the 
guide, as I listened to the noises that reached us from 
the city. 

"Nothing; it is only the Neapolitan people," he an- 
swered, smiling. 

"Is it always so?" 

"Always." 

There rose up above this mass of roofs a clamor, a 



144 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1877. 

ceaseless sound of cries, like a series of shouts, of which 
one can form no idea in the city itself. In truth, this 
noise that rises up above the city with the blue mist 
produces a species of terror in the mind, and, by making 
one strangely conscious of the height at which one 
stands, causes a sensation of vertigo. 

The marble chapels charmed me. A country that 
possesses treasures such as there are to be found in 
Italy, is the richest country in the world. To com- 
pare Italy with the rest of the world is like comparing a 
magnificent painting to a whitewashed wall. 

How did I dare to judge Naples a year ago? I had 
not even seen it then. 



Saturday, March 3. — I went to the chapel in our 
hotel this evening. There is an infinite charm in 
letting the thoughts dwell upon love when one is in a 
church. You see the priest, the images, the glow of the 
tapers shining through the obscurity — all this took me 
back to Rome! Divine ecstasy, celestial perfume, 
delightful transports — ah, how describe them here! 
Only in song could feelings such as pervaded me be 
expressed. 

Rome! Its statues, its mosaics, its wonders of art, 
antiquity, the middle ages, its great men, its monu- 
ments of the past, St. Peter's with its columns and its 
mysterious shadows — I thought of all these. 

Saturday, March 31. — What is to be gained by weep- 
ing? Tears will do no good. Unhappiness is to be my 
destiny — that, and an artist's fame. And what if I 
should fail? 

Make your minds easy; I was not born to spend my 
life in some obscure corner of the world, letting my 
faculties rust through neglect. 

I will not now speak .of love, for I once made use of 



1877-1 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 145 

that word lightly; I will no longer invoke the help of 
God; all I wish for is to die. 

Lord God, Jesus Christ; suffer me to die! My life 
has been a short one, but the lesson taught me has been 
hard. Everything has been against me. I desire 
only to die. My thoughts are as incoherent and dis- 
ordered as the lines I trace; I hate myself, as I hate 
everything that is contemptible. Let me die, my God ! 
Let me die! I haveJived long enough! 

A peaceful death! To die while singing some beau- 
tiful air of Verdi; no rebellious feelirTg rises up within 
me at the thought, as formerly; then I desired to live 
that others might not triumph and rejoice over me. 
Now all that is indifferent to me; I suffer too much. 

Sunday, April 1. — I am like the patient and untiring 
alchemist who spends whole days and nights beside 
his retorts that he may not miss the moment he has 
longed for and waited for. Every day it seems to me 
that it is going to happen. And I think of it and wait 
for it. And how do I know whether it has happened 
or not? I examine myself curiously and with eager 
eyes in the glass, and I ask myself anxiously if this be 
not perhaps it. But I have formed such an opinion of 
it, that I have come to think it does not exist, or 
rather that it has already happened, and that there was 
nothing wonderful in it, after all. 

But all my imaginings, then, and the novelists and the 
poets? Would they with one accord have made their 
theme a feeling that does not exist, solely for the pur- 
pose of dignifying by its name the grossness of human 
nature? No; for in that case it would be impossible 
to account for our preferences. 

Florence, Friday, May 11. — Have I mentioned that 
Gordigiani came to see us; that he gave me great en- 
couragement, and predicted an artistic future for me; 



146 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1877. 

that he found much to praise in my sketches, and 
wished very much to paint my portrait? 

Saturday, May 12. — My heart is oppressed at the 
thought of leaving Florence. 

To go to Nice! I look forward to it as I would to 
going to live in a desert. I should like to shave my 
head that I might not have the trouble of arranging my 
hair. 

We have packed our trunks, we are going ! The ink 
dries upon my pen while I try to write in vain, so 
oppressed am I by grief. 

Nice, Wednesday, May 16. — I have been running 
about all the morning in search of a few trifles that I 
want for my antechamber, but in this wretched place 
one can find nothing. I went to the shop of a painter 
on glass, to a tinsmith's, and I don't know where else. 

The thought that my diary may not prove interesting, 
the impossibility of making it interesting by preparing 
surprises for the reader, torment me. If I wrote only 
at intervals I might be able to do so, perhaps, but these 
notes written down each day will be read with interest 
only by some thinker, or some student of human 
nature. Whoever has not the patience to read it all, 
will be able to read none of it, and, above all, will be 
able to understand none of it. 

I am happy in my comfortable and pretty nest in the 
midst of my garden full of flowers. Nice no longer 
exists for me ; I am in my country-house. 

Nice, Wednesday, May 23. — Oh, when I think that 
we have only a single life to live, and that every mo- 
ment that passes brings us nearer death, I am ready 
to go distracted! 

I do not fear death, but life is so short that to waste 
it is infamous. 



I877-J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 147 

One pair of eyes is not enough if one desires to accom- 
plish anything. Reading and drawing fatigue me 
greatly, and while I am writing these wretched lines at 
night I grow sleepy. 

Ah, what a happy time youth is ! 

With what happiness shall I look back, in times to 
come, on these days devoted to science and art! If I 
worked thus all the year round — but a day, or a week, 
as the chance may be ! Natures so richly endowed as 
mine consume themselves in idleness. 

I try to tranquilize my mind by thinking that I shall 
certainly begin work in earnest this winter. But the 
thought of my seventeen years makes me blush to the 
roots of my hair. Almost seventeen, and what have I 
accomplished? Nothing! This thought crushes me. 

I think of all the famous men and women who ac- 
quired their celebrity late in life, in order to console 
myself; but seventeen years for a man are nothing, 
while for a woman they are equal to twenty-three for a 
man. 

To go live in Paris, in the North, after this cloudless 
sky, these clear, calm nights! What can one desire, 
what can one hope for, after Italy ! Paris — the heart 
of the civilized world, of the world of intellect, of genius, 
of fashion — naturally people go there, and remain there, 
and are happy there; it is even indispensable to go 
there, for a multitude of reasons, in order to return with 
renewed delight to the land beloved of God, the land 
of the blest, that enchanted, wondrous, divine land of 
the supreme beauty and magic charm of which all that 
one could say would never equal the truth! 

When foreigners come to Italy they ridicule its 
mean little towns, and its lazzaroni, and they do this 
with some cleverness and not without a certain show of 
reason. But forget for the moment that you are clever; 
forget that it is a mark of genius to turn everything into 
ridicule, and you will find, as I do, that tears will mingle 



148 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1877. 

with your laughter, and that you will wonder at all you 
see. 

Tuesday, May 20. — The nearer I approach to the time 
when my youth shall be over, the more indifferent do I 
become to everything. Few things affect me now, 
while formerly anything had power to move me, so 
that in reading over this record of the past I see, from 
the impression they made upon me, that I attached 
too much importance to trifles. 

Trust in others, and that sensitiveness of feeling that 
is the bloom of the character, are soon lost. 

I regret the loss of this freshness of feeling all the 
more, as when it is once gone it is gone forever. With- 
out it one is more tranquil, but one no longer enjoys 
as much. Disappointment ought not to have come to 
me so early in life. If it had not come, I feel that I 
might have achieved great things. 

I have just finished a book that has disgusted me with 
love — the story of a charming princess who had fallen in 
love with an artist. Fie! I do not say this with the 
stupid intention of seeking to belittle the profession of 
an artist, but — without knowing why, I have always 
had aristocratic tendencies, and I believe as much in 
race where men as where animals are in question. It 
is true that often — always, indeed, in earlier times the 
foundation of a noble race was based on moral and 
physical training, the effects of which were trans- 
mitted from father to son. And of what consequence 
is the origin of a thing? 

On glancing through those pages of my journal that 

record the A episode I am filled with wonder and 

admiration for myself to see how just and true were 
my reflections concerning it at the time it occurred. 
I had forgotten them, and I was a little uneasy lest it 
might be thought that I had entertained an affection 
(a past affection) for Count A . Fortunately, how- 



1877-1 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 149 

ever, no one can think so now, thanks to this dear 
journal. No, truly, I did not think I had made so 
many just reflections at the time, and, above all, that 
I had felt them. That was a year ago, and I feared I 
had written a great deal of nonsense; but no, I am 
quite satisfied with myself. The only thing that I 
cannot understand is how I could have behaved so 
foolishly and reasoned so wisely. 

I must repeat to myself again that no advice in the 
world — nothing but personal experience- — could ever 
have kept me from doing anything I wished to do. 

That is because the woman who writes these words 
and the woman she is writing about are two different 
persons. What do all these sufferings matter to me? 
I write them down; I analyze them; I transcribe my 
daily life, but to me, to me myself, all that is completely 
indifferent. It is my pride, my self-love, my interests, 
my complexion, my eyes, that suffer, that weep, that 
rejoice; but J, I take part in it all only to observe, 
to narrate, to write about and reason coldly concerning 
all these trifles, like Gulliver, among the Lilliputians. 

I have a great deal more to say in explanation of 
myself, but enough for the present. 

Monday, June 11. — While they were playing cards 
last night I made a rough sketch of the players by the 
unsteady light of the two wax candles, and this morn- 
ing I transferred the sketch to canvas. 

I am delighted to have made a picture of persons 
sitting down in different attitudes ; to have copied the 
position of the hands and arms, the expression of the 
countenance, etc., I had never before done anything 
but heads, which I was satisfied to scatter over the 
canvas like flowers. 

Paris, Saturday, July 7. — I think I may truly say 
that I have been growing much more sensible for some 



150 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. [1877. 

time past; that I begin to see things now in a more 
natural light, and that I have abandoned a great many 
illusions and a great many regrets. 

True wisdom can be learned only from personal 
experience. 

Sunday, July 15. — I am so weary of life that I should 
like to die. Nothing amuses me, nothing interests me. 
I desire nothing, I hope for nothing. Yes, there is one 
thing I wish for — not to be ashamed of being as I am. 
I desire to be able, in a word, to do nothing, to think of 
nothing, to live the life of a plant, without feeling 
remorse for it. 

Reading, drawing, music — but ennui! ennui! ennui! 
In addition to one's occupations one requires some 
amusement, some interest in life, and this is why I am 
weary of it. 

I am tired of life, not because I have not married — 
no, I am sure you think better of me than to imagine 
that — I am tired of life because everything has gone 
wrong with me, and because I am tired of it. 

Paris kills me! It is a cafe, a well-kept hotel, a 
bazar. I must only hope, however, that when winter 
comes, what with the opera, the Bois, and my studies, 
I shall be able to accustom myself to it. 

Tuesday, July 17. — I have spent the day looking at 
veritable marvels of artistic and antique embroidery, 
gowns that are poems, all sorts of splendors that have 
given me a glimpse of a luxury I had scarcely an idea of 
before. 

Ah, Italy! — If I devoted a month twice a year there 
to my wardrobe, I had no need to think of it again. 
Dress is so stupid when one makes it a matter of special 
study. 

Wednesday, July 18.— The mere word "Italy" 



I877-] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 151 

causes me an emotion such as no other word, such as 
no one's presence, has ever done. 

Oh, when shall I be there! 

It would annoy me exceedingly if any one were to sup- 
pose I wrote these Ah's and Oh's through affectation. 

I don't know why this should be the case, however; 
and, besides, I affirm and declare that all I say, stupid 
and disagreeable though it may be, is the truth. 

The thing is that I wish to write now in a different 
style, quite simply; and I fear that on comparing this 
with my former exaggerated way of saying things, 
people will no longer be able to understand what I 
want to say. 

I want to express myself quite naturally, and if I 
make use of a few figures of speech, do not think it is for 
embellishment; oh, no! it is simply for the purpose of 
describing as nearly as possible the confusion of my 
thoughts. 

It vexes me greatly to be able to write nothing that is 
pathetic. I long so much to make others feel what 
I feel! I weep, and I say I weep! That is not what I 
want. I want to make you feel the whole thing — I 
want to touch your hearts ! 

That will come, and other things will come with it, 
but it must not be sought after. 

Thursday, July 26. — I have spent almost the whole 
day drawing; in order to rest my eyes I played for a 
while on the mandolin; then again came drawing, then, 
the piano. There is nothing in the world to be com- 
pared to Art; and it is as much a source of happiness 
for the beginner as for the master. One forgets every- 
thing in one's work; one regards those outlines, those 
shadings, with respect, with emotion — one is a creator, 
one feels one's-self almost great. 

Through fear of injuring my eyes I have given up 
reading at night for some little time past. I begin to 



152 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1877. 

see things blurred, even at so short a distance as from 
the carriage to the sidewalk. This troubles me. What 
if, after losing my voice, I should be obliged to give up 
drawing and reading also! In that case I should no 
longer complain, for that would mean that in all my 
other sufferings no one was to blame, and that they 
were the will of God. 

Monday, July 30. — Fauvel has stopped my excursions 
to Enghein, and will perhaps send me to Germany, 
which would again turn everything upside down. 
Walitsky is a skillful doctor and understands a great 
deal about sickness; I was in hopes he was mistaken 
in wishing me to go to Soden, but it seems that Fauvel is 
of the same opinion. 

Sunday, August 5. — When one is in want of bread, 
one does not ask for sweets; therefore it is that I am 
ashamed to speak of my artistic hopes at present. I 
no longer dare to say that I would like such or such an 
arrangement made to enable me to work better or that 
I want to go to Italy to study. To say such things now 
would cost me a great effort. 

Even if I were to have everything I desire, I think it 
would no longer make me happy as it might have done 
before. 

Confidence, once lost, can never be restored; and to 
lose this — as is the case with every irrevocable loss — is 
an inconsolable sorrow. 

I am disenchanted with life; I take notice of nothing, 
and no one interests me; I wear an anxious look, in- 
stead of my former confident expression, thus depriving 
my countenance of its principal charm; I sit silent and 
apart while others are conversing around me; my 
friends look at me with astonishment at first, and then 
leave me to myself. Then I try to be amusing, and I 
am only odd, extravagant, impertinent, and stupid. 



I877-] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 153 

Monday, August 6. — Do you suppose that the con- 
dition of Russia causes me no anxiety? Who is there 
so unhappy or so contemptible that he forgets his 
country in her hour of danger? 

Do you think one hundred thousand slaughtered 
Russians would now be lying dead if my prayers could 
have availed to save them, or my anxious thoughts to 
protect them? 

Tuesday, August 7. — I have been stupefying myself 
at the Bon Marche\ which pleases me, as everything 
else does that is well arranged. We had some friends 
to supper; they laughed, still — I am sad, wretched. . . . 
So then, it is impossible! Horrible word! Hideous, 
maddening word! To die, my God, to die! To die 
and leave nothing behind! To die like a dog — to die 
as a hundred thousand other women have died whose 
names scarcely survive upon their tombstones! To 
die! 

Mad creature, who will not see what it is that God 
desires! God wishes me to renounce everything and 
to devote myself to art ! In five years to come I shall 
still be young, still beautiful perhaps. But what if 
I become only a mediocre artist such as there are 
already too many of? 

With other things to interest one, that might do, 
but to devote one's life to it and not to succeed! 

What is life without society? What can one who 
leads a solitary existence hope to accomplish! This 
thought makes me hate the whole world, my family, 
myself; it makes me blaspheme! To live! To live! 
Holy Mary, Mother of God, Lord Jesus, help me! 

But if I wish to devote my life to art, I must go to 
Italy! Yes, to Rome. 

This is the wall of granite against which I dash my 
head at every instant! 

I will remain here. 



154 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF* [1877. 

Sunday, August 12. — I have sketched the portrait 
of Antoinette, our chambermaid. She has a charming 
face, with large, bright blue eyes of an exquisitely sweet 
and innocent expression. The sketch is always a 
success with me, but to finish a portrait one must have 
studied. 

Friday, August 17. — I am convinced that I cannot 
live outside of Rome. In fact my health is visibly 
deteriorating, but at least I have no wish in the matter. 
I would give two years of my life never to have been in 
Rome. 

Unhappily, one learns how to act only when there is 
no longer need for action. 

The thought of painting enrages me. Because there 
is the material in me to accomplish wonders, and yet, so 
far as study is concerned, I am less fortunate than any 
poor boy whom some benevolent person sends to 
school because he has been discovered to possess talent. 
I hope, at least, that posterity, in revenge for the loss 
of the pictures I might have painted, will decapitate 
every member of my family. 

Do you fancy I still wish to go into society? No, 
no; I am soured and disappointed, and if I wish to 
become an artist, it is for the same reason that mal- 
contents become republicans. 

I think, after all, I slander myself in saying this. 

Saturday, August 18. — When I was reading Homer 
I compared my aunt, on one occasion, when she was 
angry, to Hecuba at the burning of Troy. No matter 
how much ashamed we may be to confess our admira- 
tion for the classics, no one, I think, can escape in 
secret from the charm exercised over the mind by the 
ancient writers. No modern drama, no romance, no 
sensational comedy of Dumas or of Georges Sand, has 
left so clear a recollection or so vivid and profound 



i877.) JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 155 

an impression upon me as the description of the fall of 
Troy. 

I almost feel as if I had witnessed those horrors; as 
if I had heard those cries, and seen those flames, with 
Priam's family, unhappy ones, seeking refuge behind 
the altars of their gods, to be followed there by the 
flames and delivered by them at last from their suf- 
ferings. 

I have thrown aside in disgust the "Journal d'un 
Diplomate en Italic" This French elegance of style, 
this politeness, these hackneyed phrases of admiration, 
are an insult to Rome. When a Frenchman is describ- 
ing anything I always picture him to myself as dissect- 
ing it with a long instrument held delicately between 
his fingers, and eye-glasses on his nose. 

Rome should be, as a city, what I imagined I should 
be as a woman; any expression of admiration uttered 
in the presence of others, where we are concerned, is a 
profanation. 

Sunday, August 19. — I have just finished reading 
"Ariadne" by Ouida. This book has left a sad im- 
pression on me, yet I almost envy the lot of Gioja. 

Gioja grew up to womanhood under the joint influ- 
ence of Homer and Virgil; after her father's death she 
went on foot to Rome, and received there a terrible 
disappointment, for she had expected to see the Rome 
of Augustus. 

For two years she studied in the studio of Marix, 
the most celebrated sculptor of the time, who secretly 
loved her. But she had no thought for anything 
except her art until the appearance of Hilarion, a poet 
whose poems drew tears from every one, and who him- 
self turned everything into ridicule; a millionaire — as 
beautiful as a god, and who was adored by all who knew 
him. While Marix worships her in silence, Hilarion 
causes Gioja to fall in love with him to gratify a whim. 



156 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1877. 

The ending of the romance saddened me, yet I would 
accept without hesitation the lot of Gioja. First, she 
worshiped Rome, then she experienced the delight of an 
absorbing passion. And if she was deserted, it was 
by him; if she suffered, it was through him; and I 
cannot picture to myself how one can be unhappy 
because of anything that comes from the man one 
loves — as she loved, and as I shall love, if I ever love! 

She never discovered that he had sought to make her 
love him for a whim. 

"He has loved me," she says, "it is I who have been 
unable to retain his affections." 

She won fame; her name, uttered in accents of ad- 
miration mingled with wonder, was on every one's 
lips. 

She never ceased to love him; he never descended in 
her eyes to the rank of common men; she believed him 
always to be perfect, almost divine; she did not wish 
to die then, because he lived. "How can one kill one's 
self," she says, "while the man one loves still lives?" 

And she died in his arms, hearing from his lips the 
words, "I love you." 

But in order to love thus, one must find a Hilarion. 
The man one loves thus must belong to no obscure 
family; Hilarion was the son of a noble Austrian and a 
Greek princess. The man one loves thus should never 
know what it is to be in want of money; he should 
never falter in any one of his undertakings, nor be 
afraid of anything or of any one. 

This man, finally, must never find the door of a 
palace or of a club barred to him; he must never find 
himself obliged to hesitate regarding the purchase of a 
statue he desires to possess, or the propriety of any one 
of his actions, however foolish it may be. He must be 
superior to the slights, the annoyances, the difficulties 
of other men. He must be a coward only in love, but 
a coward like Hilarion who could break a woman's 



I877-] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 157 

heart with a smile, and who would weep to see a 
woman want for anything. 

Such a man should find, wherever he travels, a palace 
of his own in which he may repose, a yacht to trans- 
port him wherever his fancy may lead him, jewels, 
servants, horses, flute-players even, if he should desire 
them. 

Thursday, August 23. — I am in Schlangenbad ! 

Fauvel has ordered me to rest, as he says. I do not 
think myself cured yet, however, and in the matter 
of disagreeable things I never deceive myself. 

I shall soon be eighteen. Eighteen years are not a 
great many to one who is thirty-five, but they are a 
great many to me, who in the brief period of my 
existence as a young girl have had few pleasures and 
many griefs. 

Art ! If I had not that magic word before me in the 
distance I should have died already. 

But for Art one has need of no one; we depend 
entirely upon ourselves, and if we fail, it is because 
there was nothing in us, and that we ought to live no 
longer. Art ! I picture it to myself like a great light 
shining before me in the distance, and I forget every- 
thing else but this, and I shall press forward to the goal, 
my eyes fixed upon this light. And now — oh, no, no! 
now, my God, do not terrify me! Some horrible 
thought tells me that — Ah, no : I will not write it down, 
I will not bring bad luck upon myself! My God! — 

I will make the attempt, and if Then there will 

be no more to be said, and — let God's will be done! 

I was at Schlangenbad two years ago. What a dif- 
ference between then and now! 

Then I hoped all things; now I hope for nothing. . . . 

Thanks to my habit of carrying a "heap of useless 
things" about with me I can make myself at home 
anywhere by the end of an hour — my dressing-case, my 



158 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1877. 

writing materials, my mandolin, a few good big books, 
my foot-warmer, and my photographs — that is all. 
But with those any room in an inn may be made com- 
fortable. What I am most attached to are my four 
large red dictionaries, my Livy, bound in green, a 
small copy of Dante, a medium-sized Lamartine, and 
my likeness, cabinet size, painted in oil and framed 
in dark blue velvet, in a Russia leather case. With 
this my bureau assumes at once an air of elegance, 
and when the light of the two wax candles falls on 
these warm and pleasing colors, I feel almost reconciled 
to Germany. 

Dina is so good, so amiable! How I should like to 
see her happy! 

And a word in regard to that; what a vile humbug 
the life of certain persons is! 

Monday, August 27. — I have added a clause to my 
evening prayer — these five words: My God, protect 
our armies ! 

I, eighteen years old — it is absurd! My talents still 
undeveloped, my hopes, my passions, my caprices, will 
be ridiculous at eighteen. To begin to learn to paint 
at eighteen, when one has had the pretension of being 
able to do everything quicker and better than other 
people! 

There are people who deceive others, but I have 
deceived myself. 

Saturday, September 1. — I spend a great deal of my 
time alone, thinking and reading, without any one to 
direct me. Perhaps this is well, but perhaps also it is 
ill. 

Who will assure me that my head has not been filled 
with erroneous notions, and my judgment distorted 
by false methods of reasoning? That is a question 
that will be decided when I am dead. 



I877-] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 159 

Forgive, forgiveness: here are a verb and a noun 
extensively used in the world. Christianity com- 
mands us to forgive. 

What is forgiveness? 

It is the renunciation of vengeance or of the desire 
to inflict punishment for an offense received. But 
when we have had neither the intention of taking ven- 
geance nor of inflicting punishment, can we be said to 
forgive? Yes, and no. Yes, because we assure our- 
selves and others that we have forgiven; and we act 
as if the offense had never existed. No, because one 
is not master of one's memory, and so long as we 
remember we have not forgiven. 

I have spent the whole of the day in the society of my 
family, and I mended with my own hands a Russia 
leather shoe belonging to Dina; then I washed a large 
wooden table, as any chambermaid might do, and set to 
work to make on this table varenki (a paste made of 
flour, water, and fresh cheese). My people were 
amused to see me kneading the paste with sleeves 
turned up, and a black velvet cap upon my head, like 
Faust. 

Sunday, September 2. — How can people who are free 
to do as they choose go to spend a day at Wiesbaden? 

We went there nevertheless, in order to see the most 
ridiculous people in the world celebrate the defeat of 
the most cultured. 

Thursday, September 6. — I will stay in Paris. This is 
what I have definitely resolved to do, and my mother 
also. I spent the whole evening with her. Every- 
thing would have gone very well if it had not been 
that she was ill, growing worse toward night. She has 
hardly left her bed since yesterday. 

I have resolved to remain in Paris, where I will pursue 
my studies, going to a watering-place in the summer for 



160 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1877. 

relaxation. All my caprices are exhausted. Russia was 
what I needed, and I am now completely reformed. And 
I feel that the moment has at last come to pause in my 
course. With my abilities, in two years I shall have 
made up for lost time. 

So, then, in the name of the Father, of the Son, and of 
the Holy Ghost, and may the divine protection be with me. 
This is not a resolution made to be broken, like so many 
former ones, but a final one. 

Paris, Wednesday, September 19. — I don't know why 
exactly, but I think I shall like to live in Paris. It 
seems to me that a year in the atelier Julian will lay a 
good foundation. 

Tuesday, October 2. — To-day we removed our belong- 
ings to 71 Champs Elysees. Notwithstanding the con- 
fusion I found time to go the atelier Julian, the only 
one of any note here for women. The hours of work 
are from eight in the morning till noon, and from one in 
the afternoon to five. 

To-day not being the fourth, which is an unlucky day 
for me, I was eager to begin work on as many things as 
possible. 

I sketched a three-quarter head in crayon in ten 
minutes at the studio, and Julian told me he had not 
expected anything so good from a beginner. I left the 
studio early, as all I wanted was to make a beginning 
to-day. We went to the Bois. I plucked five oak- 
leaves there and took them to Doucet, who, in half an 
hour, made me a charming little blue scapular. But 
what shall I wish for? to be a millionaire? To get 
back my voice? To obtain the Prix de Rome under 
the guise of a man? To marry Napoleon IV? To go 
into the great world? 

J wish more than anything to get back my voice. 

The day passes quickly when one draws from eight in 



I377-] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 161 

the morning till noon, and from one in the afternoon 
to five. Only to go to the studio and back takes 
almost an hour and a half. To-day I arrived a little 
late, so that I worked but six hours. 

When I think of the entire years that I have lost it 
makes me angry enough to give up everything! But 
that would only make matters worse. Come, be mis- 
erable and hateful as you will, but be satisfied, at least, 
to have at last succeeded in making a beginning. And 
I might have begun at thirteen ? Four entire years lost ! 

I might be painting historical pictures by this time if 
I had begun four years ago. All that I have done is 
worse than nothing; it must be undone again. 

At last I am working with artists — real artists, who 
have exhibited in the Salon, and whose pictures are 
bought — who even give lessons themselves. 

Julian is satisfied with the beginning I have made. 
"By the end of the winter," he said to me, "you will 
be able to paint very good portraits." 

He says some of the women pupils give as much 
promise as the men; I would have worked with the 
latter but that they smoke, and then there is no dif- 
ference in the work. Formerly the women pupils did 
not draw from the nude, but since they have been 
admitted to the Academy there is no difference made 
in that respect between them and the men. 

The servant at the studio is just like one of those 
they describe in novels. 

"I have always lived among artists," she says, "and 
I am not by any means one of the bourgeoisie; I am an 
artist." 

I am happy, happy! 

Friday, October 5. — "Did you do that by yourself?" 
M. Julian asked me on entering the studio to-day. 
"Yes, Monsieur." 
I grew as red as if I had told a falsehood. 



162 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. (1877. 

"Well, I am satisfied with it, very well satisfied 
with it." 

"Truly?" 

"Very well satisfied." 

In the studio all distinctions disappear. One has 
neither name nor family; one is no longer the daughter 
of one's mother, one is one's-self, — an individual, — and 
one has before one art, and nothing else. One feels so 
happy, so free, so proud! 

At last I am what I have so long wished to be. I 
have wished for it so long that I scarcely believe it now 
to be true. 

Apropos, whom do you think I saw in the Champs 
Elysees to-day? 

None other than the Duke of H occupying a 

fiacre all by himself. 

The handsome, vigorous young man with yellow locks 
and a delicate mustache now looks like a big English- 
man; his face is very red, and he has little red whiskers 
that grow from the tip of the ear to the middle of the 
cheek. 

Four years, however, change a man greatly; at the 
end of half an hour I had ceased to think of him. 



Sic transit gloria Ducts. 

The sense of shame disappears in the presence of per- 
fect beauty, for supreme beauty leaves room in the 
mind for no other feeling than admiration. 

And so with other things. The music that allows the 
defect of the stage-setting to be noticed is not perfect. 
An act of heroism that, after it has taken place, has left 
the judgment free, is not the heroic act you have 
dreamed of . . . . 

To be supreme of its kind a thing must occupy the mind 
to the exclusion of every feeling that is not connected with it. 



1877.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 163 

Thursday, October 11. — M. Julian told the servant at 
the studio that Schoeppi and I were the pupils who 
gave greatest promise of being artists. Schoeppi is a 
Swiss. M. Julian added that I may become a great 
artist. 

The weather is so cold that I have taken cold, but I 
can forgive all that provided only I can learn to draw. 

To draw? And why? 

To compensate me for everything I have been de- 
prived of since the day I was born; to supply the place 
of everything I have ever longed for, and everything I 
still long for; to enable me to achieve success by my 
genius, by — by anything you choose, provided only 
that I achieve success ! 

Saturday, October 13. — It is on Saturday that M. 
Tony Robert-Fleury comes to the studio. He is the 
artist who painted he Dernier Jour de Corinihe, which 
was purchased by the State for the Luxembourg. The 
most distinguished artists of Paris come to the studio 
from time to time to give us the benefit of their advice. 

When he came to me and proceeded to pronounce 
judgment I interrupted him, saying: 

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but I began only ten 
days ago." 

"Where did you draw before?" he asked, examining 
my drawing. 

"Nowhere." 

"How, nowhere?" 

"Yes, I took thirty-two lessons in painting for my 
own amusement." 

"But that is not studying." 

"No, Monsieur, for that reason " 

"You had never drawn from nature before coming 
here? 

"Never, Monsieur." 

"That cannot be possible." 



164 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1877, 
"But I assure you " 



And as he appeared still incredulous, I added: 

" I will give you my word of honor that it is as I say, 

if you wish." 

"Well, then," he said, "you have extraordinary 

talent for painting; you are exceptionally gifted, and I 

advise you to work hard." 

Let me go on with and conclude the history of my 
success. 

"How is this, Mademoiselle?" said Julian this even- 
ing, standing in front of me with his arms folded. 

I felt something like fear, and asked him, reddening, 
what the matter was. 

"Why, this is splendid," he said; "you work all day 
long on Saturdays, when every one else is taking a little 
relaxation!" 

"Why, yes, Monsieur, I have nothing else to do; I 
must do something." 

"This is fine. Do you know that M. Robert-Fleury 
is not at all dissatisfied with you?" 

"Yes, he has told me so." 

"This poor Robert-Fleury! He is still somewhat 
indisposed." 

And the master, installing himself beside me, began 
to chat with me — a thing he very seldom does with 
any of his pupils, and which is very much appreciated. 

Mme. D dined with us to-day; I was quiet, 

reserved, silent, scarcely amiable, indeed. I had no 
thought for anything but art. 

As I am writing, I stop and think of all the labor 
that will be necessary — the time, the patience, the 
difficulties that will present themselves. 

It is not as easy to become a great painter as it is to 
say the words; even if one has the genius, there exists 
still the necessity for the indispensable mechanical 
labor 



I877-] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 165 

And a voice within whispers to me: "You will feel 
neither the time nor the difficulties that may present 
themselves; you will achieve success before you are 
aware of it." 

And I believe this voice! It has never yet deceived 
me, and it has too often predicted misfortune for it to 
speak falsely this time; I hear it, and I feel that I am 
justified in believing it. 

I shall take the Prix de Rome! 

Tuesday, October 16. — M. Robert-Fleury came to the 
studio this afternoon and honored me with his special 
attention. 

I spent all the morning at the studio, as usual, from 
nine till half-past twelve. I have not yet succeeded in 
arriving there at eight precisely. 

At noon I come home to breakfast and return to the 
studio at twenty minutes past one, to remain till five, 
and again in the evening at eight to remain till ten. 
That gives me nine hours a day. 

This does not fatigue me in the least; if it were 
physically possible for me to do more, I would do it. 
There are people who call this work; I assure you that 
for me it is play, and I do not say this in order to boast 
of it. Nine hours are so little, and to think that I 
cannot work even so long as that every day, the dis- 
tance is so great from the Champs Elysees to the Rue 
Vivienne, and very often there is no one to accompany 
me in the evening. 

It will be dark at four o'clock in winter; I will go to 
the studio in the evenings then at all costs. 

We drive to the studio in a coupe" in the morning, and 
in a landau in the latter part of the day. 

You see the question is to accomplish in one year the 
work of three. And, as I am making rapid progress, 
these three years' work in one will be equal to six years 
of work for a person of ordinary ability. 



166 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1877. 

I am talking now like the fools who say, ''What it 
would take another two years to accomplish she will 
accomplish in six months." There can be no more 
mistaken way of reasoning than this. 

The question is not one of time; if that were the case, 
there would be nothing to do but work for so many 
years. Doubtless with patience any one might achieve 
a certain amount of success. But what I will accom- 
plish in a year or two the Danish girl will never accom- 
plish. Whenever I undertake to correct the mistakes 
of humanity I become confused and irritated, because 
I never have the patience to finish a sentence com- 
pletely. 

In brief, if I had begun three years ago, I might be 
satisfied with six hours' study daily; but as it is, I need 
nine, ten, twelve — as many hours as I can devote to it, 
in short. Of course, even if I had begun three years 
ago, I would still do well to work as many hours as 
possible, but — what is past, is past!" 

Thursday, October 18. — Julian, speaking of my draw- 
ing from the nude to-day, said that it was extraordi- 
nary, remarkable, for a beginner. And the fact is, if it 
is not remarkable, at least the composition is good, the 
torso is not bad either, and the drawing is very well 
for a beginner. 

All the pupils got up and came over to look at my 
drawing, while I blushed to the roots of my hair. 

Heavens, how happy I am! 

Last night's drawing was so bad that M. Julian 
advised me to do it over. Wishing to make it too good, 
I spoiled it this evening. It was better before I re- 
touched it. 

Saturday, October 20. — Breslau received a great many 
compliments to-day from Robert-Fleury, and I not one. 
The drawing from the nude was good enough, but the 



1877-3 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 167 

head was bad. I ask myself with terror when I shall 
be able to draw well. 

I have been working just two weeks, taking out the 
Sundays. Two weeks ! 

Breslau has been working at the studio two years, 
and she is twenty; I am seventeen; but Breslau had 
taken lessons for a long time before coming here. 

And I, miserable creature that I am? 

I have been taking lessons only two weeks! 

How well that Breslau draws! 

Monday, October 22. — The model to-day was an ugly 
one, and every one refused to draw. I proposed that 
we should all go to see the Prix de Rome, on exhibition 
at the School of Fine Arts. Half the party went on 
foot, and Breslau, Madame Simonides, Zilhardt, and I 
in a carriage. 

The exhibition had closed yesterday. We walked 
on the quays for a while; we looked at the old books 
and engravings, we discussed art. Then we drove in 
an open fiacre to the Bois. Do you understand what 
that means? I did not want to say anything — it 
would have been to spoil their pleasure. They were so 
amiable and behaved with so much decorum, and we 
were just beginning to feel at ease with one another. 
In short — things were going on very well, when we 
chanced to meet the landau containing my family 
which followed our fiacre. 

I made a sign to our driver not to take the lead; 
they had seen me and they knew it, but I did not care 
to speak to them in the presence of my artist-friends. 
I wore my little cap, my hair was in disorder, and I 
looked confused. 

My family, naturally, were furious, and worse than 
that, ashamed. 

I was terribly embarrassed. 

Altogether a disagreeable event. 



168 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1877. 

Wednesday, October 24. — M. Robert-Fleury came to 
the studio last night, and told me I had done wrong in 
absenting myself from the lesson, as I was one of the 
best of the pupils. M. Julian repeated this to me in a 
sufficiently flattering manner. 

It was already flattering to have my absence noticed 
by a professor like Robert-Fleury. 

And when I think that I might have begun to work 
four years ago at least — at least ! And I never cease to 
think of it. 

Saturday, November 3. — M. Robert-Fleury had al- 
ready corrected all the drawings when I arrived at the 
studio to-day. I gave him mine and hid myself behind 
his seat, as usual. Well, I was forced to come out from 
my place of concealment, he had so many pleasant 
things to say to me. 

"There is still a crudeness in the outlines, indeed, but 
the freedom and truth of the drawing are admirable," he 
said. "The action of this is really very good. Of 
course it is true that you are wanting in experience, but 
you have that which is not to be learned. Do you 
understand? That which is not to be learned. What 
you do not yet possess is to be learned, and you will 
learn it." 

"Yes," he repeated, "it is admirable, and if you will 
only study hard you will do very well — and remember 
it is I who say so." 

"And I say so too," I answered. 

Thursday, November 8. — There is only one thing that 
could have taken me away from the studio for the whole 
afternoon, and that is Versailles. 

On the stairs I came face to face with Julian, who was 
surprised to see me leaving so early. I explained to him 
how it was, and said that nothing but Versailles could 
have taken me away from the studio. He said that 



1877] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASBKIRTSEFF. 169 

was so much the more to be commended, as I had so 
many temptations in the way of amusements. 

"I find pleasure nowhere but here, Monsieur," I 
said. 

"And you are right; you shall see how glad you will 
be that it is so two months hence." 

"You know my desire is to be a great artist, and that 
I am not learning drawing as — an amusement." 

"I should hope so! That would be to put a bar of 
gold to the same use as a bar of copper, and that would 
be a crime; I assure you that with your ability — I see 
evidence of that in the admirable things you have 
already done — you do not need more than a year and a 
half to accomplish wonders." 

"Ohi" 

"I repeat it, wonders!" 

"Take care, Monsieur, I shall go away enchanted." 

" I speak the truth, you shall see for yourself; by the 
end of this winter you will be able to draw very well. 
I give you six months in which to familiarize yourself 
with colors, without neglecting your drawing — to 
accomplish wonders, in a word." 

Merciful Heaven! During the drive home I did 
nothing but laugh and cry for joy; and I already began 
to indulge in dreams of receiving five thousand francs 
for a portrait. 

So much happiness makes me afraid. A year and a 
half for portraits, but for a picture? Let us say two or 
three years more — we shall see. 

Saturday, November 10. — M. Robert-Fleury was tired 
and indisposed to-day, and corrected scarcely half of 
our drawings. No one received a compliment from 
him, not even I; I was a little surprised at this, as Julian 
had thought my work very good. Yes, but I was dis- 
satisfied with it myself. I am disgusted. 

Afterwards I made some sketches; one of them, a 



170 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1877. 

sort of caricature, turned out a success. Julian made 
me put my name to it, and placed it in his album. 

How much more easily we are affected by disagree- 
able things than by pleasant ones ! 

For a month past I have heard nothing but words of 
commendation, with the exception of one occasion, a 
fortnight ago. This morning I was scolded, and I 
have forgotten everything but the scolding. But it is 
so always. A thousand persons applaud; a single one 
hisses, and his voice drowns the voices of all the others. 

Wednesday, November 14. — To-day I went to look 
for some books and plaster casts in the neighborhood of 
the School of Medicine. I was delighted; the streets 
were full of students coming out of the various schools — 
those narrow streets with shops where musical instru- 
ments are sold. I was enchanted with everything. 
Ah ! sapristi! I can understand now the magic charm, 
if one may say so, of the Latin Quarter. 

Talk to me now of the Latin Quarter if you will — 
that is what reconciles me to Paris; one might fancy 
one's-self in another country — almost in Italy; it is 
another sort of life altogether, something that I cannot 
describe. 

My mother was horrified to see me go to a shop where 
"one sees such things — oh, such things! naked peas- 
ants." Bourgeoisie! Wait till I shall have painted a 
fine picture — When the flower is in bloom, the fruit 
ripe, no one thinks of the soil from which they have 
sprung. 

I think only of the end in view, and I press on to that 
end without pausing or turning aside. 

I love to go to workshops and to places where, thanks 
to my modest costume, I am taken for a Breslau, as it 
were; they look at me in a certain benevolent, encour- 
aging fashion, altogether different from before. 

I can never forgive myself for not knowing as much 



I877-I JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 171 

as Breslau. The thought that troubles me is this: I 
have learned a little of everything, but nothing thor- 
oughly, and I am afraid the same thing may happen 
in thisVcase. But no, by the way in which I am pro- 
gressing, this is going to be serious. That one has not 
done a thing before is no reason why one should never 
do it. But each first time I am incredulous. 

Friday, November 23. — That miserable Breslau has 
composed a picture — " Monday Morning, or the 
Choice of the Model." Every one belonging to the 
studio is in it — Julian standing between Amelie and me. 

It is correctly done, the perspective is good, the like- 
nesses — everything. 

When one can do a thing like that, one cannot fail to 
become a great artist. 

You have guessed it, have you not? I am jealous. 
That is well, for it will serve as a stimulus to me. 

But it is six weeks since I began to draw. Breslau 
will be always in advance of me, because she began 
before me. No; in two or three months more I shall 
be able to draw as well as she does — that is to say, very 
well. It pleases me, besides, to have found a rival 
worthy of me; if there were only the others I should 
go to sleep. 

Grandpapa is ill, and Dina is at her post, devoted and 
attentive. She has grown much prettier, and she is so 
good! 

Monday, November 26. — I took my first lesson in 
anatomy at four o'clock to-day, just after my drawing 
lesson. It lasted till half -past four. 

M. Cuyer is my teacher; he was sent to me by 
Mathias Duval, who has promised to obtain permission 
for me to visit the School of Fine Arts. I began with 
the bones, of course, and one of my bureau drawers is 
full of vertebrae — human ones. 



172 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1877. 

This is frightful when one thinks that the other two 
contain perfumed paper, visiting cards, etc. 

Sunday, December 9. — Dr. Charcot has just gone. I 
was present during the consultation and listened to 
what the doctors said afterward, for I am the only self- 
possessed person in the house, and they treat me as if 
I were a doctor like themselves. At all events they do 
not expect a fatal result at present. 

Tuesday, December 11. — Grandpapa can no longer 
speak. It is horrible to see this man, who so short a 
time ago was still strong, energetic, young — to see him 
lying there almost a corpse. 

Wednesday, December 12. — At one o'clock the priest 
and the deacon came and administered the last sacra- 
ments to grandpapa. Mamma wept and prayed 
aloud; after their departure I went to bieakfast. How 
much of the animal there still, of necessity, remains in 
man. 

Saturday, December 15. — As was to be expected, 
Breslau has met with a great success; that is because 
she draws well. As to me, they found my head very 
good, and my drawing from the nude not bad. 

I am — I don't know what. Breslau has been draw- 
ing for three years, and I for only two months; no 
matter, it is abominable! Ah, if I had begun three 
years ago — only three years ago, that is not so long — I 
should be famous to-day. 

Saturday, December 22. — Robert-Fleury said to me 
to-day: "One must never be satisfied with one's-self." 
Julian said the same thing, and as I have never been 
satisfied with myself, these words have given me food 
for reflection. And when Robert-Fleury said a great 



1877-3 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 173 

many agreeable things to me afterward, I told him it 
was well he did so, for that I was altogether dissatisfied 
with myself, disheartened, despondent — which made 
him open his eyes wide with astonishment. 

And I was in truth disheartened. From the moment 
I cease to be admired I grow discouraged; that is un- 
fortunate. 

After all I have made unheard-of progress. He 
repeated to me that I had extraordinary talent. I 
"catch the likeness." I "group well." I "draw cor- 
rectly." "What more would you have, Mademoiselle? 
Be reasonable," he ended. 

He remained a long time standing beside my 
easel. 

"When one can draw like that," he said, pointing 
first to the head and then to the shoulders, "one has 
no right to draw shoulders like those." 

The Swiss girls and I went, disguised, to Bonnat, to 
ask him to receive us in the men's studio. 

Naturally, he explained to us that those fifty young 
men not being under any surveillance whatever, it 
would be impossible for him to do as we asked. After- 
ward we went to see Munkacsy — I don't know if I spell 
the name correctly — a Hungarian painter, who has a 
magnificent house, and who is a great genius. 

Saturday, December 29. — M. Robert-Fleury was very 
well pleased with me to-day. He stood for at least 
half an hour before a pair of feet, life size, that I had 
drawn, and asked me again if I had never painted 
before; if I indeed wished to make a serious study of 
painting; and how long I intended to remain in Paris? 
He expressed a desire to see the first things I had done 
in colors, and asked me how I had come to do them. I 
told him I had done them for my own amusement. As 
he stayed talking so long they all came behind him to 
listen, and in the midst (I dare to say it) of the general 



174 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1878. 

amazement he declared that if I wished I might begin 
to paint at once. 

To this I replied that I was not dying to paint, and 
that I should prefer to perfect myself first in drawing. 

Sunday and Monday, December 30 and 31. — I feel 
very melancholy; we are not keeping the Christmas 
holidays this year, and that makes me sad. I went to 
see the Christmas-tree at the house of the Swiss girls; 
it was very gay and pretty, but I was sleepy, as I had 
worked till ten o'clock. We had our fortunes told. 
Breslau is to receive wreaths; I the Prix de Rome. 



1878. 

Friday, January 4. — How strange it is that my old 
nature should lie so completely dormant. Scarce a 
trace of it is to be seen. Occasionally some souvenir 
of the past reawakens the old bitterness, but I im- 
mediately turn my thoughts to — to what? To art. 
This is amusing. 

Is this, then, the final transformation? I have so 
long and so eagerly pursued this aim, this means of 
contriving to live without passing the day cursing 
myself or the rest of creation, that I can scarcely believe 
that I have found it. 

Dressed in my black blouse, there is something in my 
appearance that reminds one of Marie Antoinette at 
the Temple. 

I begin to become what I desired to be, confident in 
my own powers, outwardly tranquil. I avoid quarrels 
and intrigues; I am scarcely ever without some useful 
occupation. 



1878.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 175 

In short, I am gradually perfecting my character. 
Understand what I mean by perfection; perfection, 
that is to say, for me. 

Oh, time! Time is required for everything. 

Time is the most terrible, the most discouraging, the 
most unconquerable of all obstacles, and one that may 
exist when no other does. 

Whatever may happen to me, I am better prepared 
for it now than I was formerly, when it enraged me to 
have to confess that I was not perfectly happy. 

Sunday, January 6. Well, then, I agree with you; 
time is passing, and it would be infinitely more amusing 
to spend it as I formerly desired to do, but, since that is 
impossible, let us await the results of my genius; there 
will still be time enough for the other. 

We have changed our place of residence; we are now 
living at 67 Avenue de l'Alma. From my windows I 
can see the carriages on the Champs Elyse'es. I have 
a salon-studio of my own. 

Monday, January 7. — Am I, or am I not to believe in 
my future as an artist? Two years are not a lifetime, 
and when two years are passed I can return, if I wish, 
to a life of idleness, of amusement, of travel. What I 
want is to be famous! 

I will be famous ! 

to 

Saturday, January 12. — Walitsky died at two o'clock 
this morning. 

When I went to see him last night he said to me, half- 
jestingly, half -sadly, "Addio, Signorina," in order to 
remind me of Italy. 

Perhaps this is the first occasion during my life on 
which I have shed tears free from egotism or anger. 

There is something peculiarly affecting in the death of 
a being altogether inoffensive, altogether good; it is 



176 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. [1878. 

like seeing a faithful dog die that has never done harm 
to any one. 

As he felt slightly better toward one o'clock the 
women retired to their own rooms; only my aunt re- 
mained with him. Then his breath failed him so that 
it was necessary to dash water into his face. 

When he had recovered himself a little he rose, for he 
desired at all hazards to bid adieu to grandpapa, but he 
had scarcely gone into the hall when his strength failed 
him; he had only time to cry out in Russian, "Adieu!" 
but in so strong a voice that it wakened mamma and 
Dina, who ran to his assistance, only to see him fall into 
the arms of my aunt and Triphon. 

I have not yet been able to realize it; it is so terrible! 
It seems impossible! 

Walitsky is dead! It is an irreparable loss; one 
would never suppose that such a character could exist 
in real life. 

We read of people like that in books. Well, then, I 
desire that he may now be conscious of my thoughts; 
that God may concede him the power to know what I 
say and think of him. May he, then, hear me from 
whatsoever be his place of abode, and, if he has ever 
had reason to complain of me, he will pardon me now 
because of my profound esteem and sincere friendship 
for him, and because of the sorrow for his loss which I 
feel in the innermost recesses of my soul ! 

Monday, January 28. — To-morrow the prizes are to 
be awarded. I so much fear being badly placed! 

Tuesday, January 29. — I had such a terror of the 
concours that poor Rosalie was obliged to make super- 
human efforts to make me get up. 

I expected either to receive the medal or to be classed 

among the very last. 



1878.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEPP. 177 

Neither the one nor the other was the case. I am 
just in the same place that I was two months ago. 

I went to see Breslau, who is still sick. 

They sang "Traviata" at the Italiens to-night, with 
Albani, Capoul, and Pandolfini in the cast — great 
artists all of them; but I was not pleased. In the last 
act, however, I felt, not the desire to die, but the 
thought that I was destined to suffer thus and to 
die thus, just as all was going to turn out happily. 

This is a prediction that I make concerning myself. 

I wore a baby-waist, which is very becoming when 
one is slender and well made. The white bows on the 
shoulders and the bare neck and arms made me look 
like one of Velasquez's infantas. 

To die? It would be absurd; and yet I think I am 
going to die. It is impossible that I should live long. 
I am not constituted like other people; I have a great 
deal too much of some things in my nature, a great 
deal too little of others, and a character not made to 
last. If I were a goddess, and the whole universe were 
employed in my service, I should still find the service 
badly rendered. There is no one more exacting, more 
capricious, more impatient, than I am. There is some- 
times, perhaps even always, a certain basis of reason 
and justice in my words, only that I cannot explain 
clearly what I want to say. I say this, however, that 
my life cannot last long. My projects, my hopes, my 
little vanities, all fallen to pieces! I have deceived 
myself in everything! 

Wednesday, February 13. — My drawing does not 
progress, and I feel as if some misfortune were about to 
happen to me; as if I had done something wrong and 
feared the consequences, or as if I anticipated receiving 
an insult. 

Mamma makes herself very unhappy through her 
own fault; there is one thing I beg and implore her not 



178 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1878. 

to do, and that is to touch my things or put my room 
in order. Well, no matter what I may say, she con- 
tinues to do so, with a pertinacity that resembles a 
disease. And if you only knew how exasperating this 
is, and how it increases my natural impatience and my 
inclination to say sharp things, which stood in no need 
of being increased! 

I believe that she loves me tenderly. I love her ten- 
derly, also, but we cannot remain two minutes together 
without exasperating each other, even to the extent of 
shedding tears. In a word, we are very uncomfortable 
together, and we should be very unhappy apart. 

I will make every sacrifice that may be required of me 
for the sake of my art. I must bear in mind that that is 
myself. 

Therefore, I will create for myself an independent 
existence, and what must come, let it come. 

Saturday, March 16. — "I have noticed for some time 
past," said Robert -Fleury to me this morning, "that 
there is a certain limit beyond which you cannot go; 
that is not as it should be. With your really great 
ability you should not stop short at easy things, the 
more so as you succeed in the more difficult ones." 

I know it well ! But next Monday you shall see that 
I will cross the limit of which Robert-Fleury speaks. 
The first thing is to convince one's-self that one must 
succeed, and that one will succeed. 

Saturday, March 23. — I promised that I would cross 
the limit of which Robert-Fleury spoke. 

I have kept my word. He was greatly pleased with 
me. He repeated that it was worth while to work hard 
with such ability as I possessed; that I had made aston- 
ishing progress, and that in a month or two more 

Saturday, April 6. — Robert-Fleury really gives me 



1878.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 179 

too much encouragement; he thought the second place 
was my due, he said, and it did not surprise him at all 
that I should receive it. 

And to think that M on leaving our house to- 
night probably went home to dream of me, and imagine, 
perhaps, that 1 am dreaming of him 

Whilst I, en deshabille, with my hair in disorder and 
my slippers thrown off, am asking myself if I have not 
succeeded sufficiently in bewitching him, and, not 
satisfied with asking myself, am asking Dina also. 

And yet — Youth! — I might once have thought 
that this was love. Now I am more sensible, and I 
understand that it is merely an amusement to feel 
that you are causing some one to fall in love with you, 
or rather to perceive that some one is falling in love 
with you. The love one inspires and the love one feels 
are two distinct sentiments which I confounded 
together before. 

Good Heavens! and I once thought I was in love 

with A , with his long nose that makes me think 

of that of M . How frightful! 

How happy it makes me to be able to clear myself 
from this suspicion — how happy! No, no, I have 
never yet loved, and if you could only picture to your- 
self how happy I feel, how free, how proud, how worthy 
— of him who is to come! 

Friday, April 12. — Julian met Robert-Fleury at the 
cafe* yesterday, and the latter said I was a truly remark- 
able and interesting pupil, and that he expected great 
things of me. It is such words as these that I must 
constantly bear in mind, especially when my spirit is 
invaded by a species of inexplicable terror, and I feel 
myself sinking in an abyss of doubt and of torturing 
thoughts of all kinds, for none of which are there any 
real grounds. 

It has happened very often, for some time past, that 



180 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1878. 

they have put three candles in my room together, — 
that signifies a death. 

Is it I who am to depart for the other world? I 
think so. And my future? And the fame that awaits 
me? Ah, well, they would be of no value to me in 
that case. 

If there were only a man on the scene, I should fancy 
myself in love, so restless am I; but, besides there being 
no one, I am disgusted with the whole thing. 

I begin to believe that I have a serious passion for my 
art, and that reassures and consoles me. If it were 
not for this restlessness and this terror, I might be 
happy! 

/ remember that in my childhood I had a superstitious 
fear somewhat similar to the feeling I have at present. I 
thought I should never be able to learn any other language 
but French; that the other languages were not to be learned. 
Well, you see there was absolutely nothing in it; yet that 
was as much a superstitious fear as my present feeling is. 

Saturday, April 20. — I glanced through a few pages 
in my journal before closing it last night, and came by 
chance across A 's letter. 

This made me think of the past, and I sat dreaming 
of it, and smiling and dreaming again. It was late 
when I went to bed, but the time spent thus was not 
lost; such moments are precious, and cannot be had at 
will; there are no moments lost when one wills it 
except when we are young; we must make the most of 
them and be grateful for them, as for everything else 
that God has given us. 

Owing to Robert-Fleury I was unable to go to con- 
fession before mass to-day, which has obliged me to 
defer taking communion until to-morrow. 

My confession was a peculiar one; it was as 
follows: 

"You have committed some sins, no doubt," said the 



1878-I JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 181 

priest, after the customary prayer. "Are you prone to 
idleness?" 

"Not at all." 

"To pride?" 

"Very much so." 

"You do not fast?" 

"Never." 

"Have you injured any one?" 

"I do not think so — perhaps; in trifles it may be, 
father, but not in anything of importance." 

"Then may God grant you pardon, my daughter." 

I have recovered my mental balance. I proved this 
to-night by conversing with the others without running 
into exaggerations of speech; my mind is tranquil, and 
I have absolutely no fear, either physical or moral. It 
has often happened to me to say : ' * I am terribly afraid ' ' 
of going to such a place, or of doing such a thing. This 
is an exaggeration of language which is common to 
almost every one and which means nothing. What I 
am glad of is that I am accustoming myself to talk 
with every one. It is necessary to do that if one 
desires to have a pleasant salon. Formerly I would 
single out one person to converse with, and neglect 
the others entirely, or almost entirely. 

Saturday, April 27; Sunday, April 28. — I foolishly 
took the notion into my head to invite some men to 
attend the midnight mass at our church. On our 
right were the Ambassador and the Duke de Leuchten- 
berg and Mme. Akenkieff, his wife. The Duke is the 
son of the Grand Duchess Marie, who died at Florence, 
and the nephew of the Emperor. This couple were at 
Rome when I was there, and Mme. Akenkieff was not 
then received at the Embassy. At present, however, 
she plays the part of Grand Duchess to perfection. 
She is still beautiful and has a majestic carriage, though 
she is almost too slender, 



x8* JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1878. 

The husband is devoted in his attentions to the wife; 
it is admirable and altogether charming. 

The Embassy gave an Easter supper, which took 
place at two in the morning, after the mass. It was 
given in the priest's house, which was chosen for the 
purpose on account of its proximity to the church. It 
was the Ambassador, however, who issued the invita- 
tions and received the guests, so that we had an oppor- 
tunity to sit at the same table as the Grand Duke and 
his wife, the Ambassador, and all the best people of 
the Russian colony in Paris. 

I was not very gay, though in reality not sad at heart ; 
for this will send me back to my studies with renewed 
ardor. 

Why does not Prince OrlofT, who is a widower, fall in 
love with me and marry me? I should then be Am- 
bassadress in Paris, almost Empress. M. AnitchkorT, 
who was ambassador at Teheran, married a young girl 
for love when he was fifty-five. 

I did not produce the effect I had intended. La- 
ferriere disappointed me, and I was compelled to wear 
an unbecoming gown. I had to improvise a chemisette, 
as the gown was decollete and that would not do. My 
gown affected my temper, and my temper my appear- 
ance — everything. 

Monday, April 29. — There is no better way of 
spending the time from six in the morning till eight 
in the evening, taking out an hour and a half for break- 
fast, than in some regular occupation. 

Changing the subject: I will tell you that I think I 
shall never be seriously in love. I invariably discover 
something to laugh at in the man, and that is the end 
of it. If he is not ridiculous, he is stupid, or awkward, 
or tiresome; in fine, there is always something, if it 
were only the tip of his ear. 

Yes, until I have found my master nothing else shall 



i8;8.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 183 

captivate me; thanks to my readiness in discovering 
the defects of people, not all the Adonises in the world 
could tempt me to fall in love. 

Friday, May 3. — There are moments when one would 
give up all the intellectual pleasures in the world, glory 
and art itself, to live in Italy a life of sunshine, music, 
and love. 

Thursday, May 9. — I might have a beautiful hand if 
my fingers had not been vilely disfigured by playing on 
stringed instruments, and by biting my nails. 

My figure like that of a Greek goddess, my hips too 
much like those of a Spanish woman, perhaps; my bust 
small and perfect in shape; my feet, my hands, and my 
childlike countenance — of what use are they, since 
no one loves me? 

Thursday, May 30. — As a general thing, the family 
and friends of great men do not believe in their genius : 
in my case it is too much the other way; that is to say, 
that it would not surprise my family if I were to paint 
a picture as large as Medusa's raft, and receive the cross 
of the Legion of Honor for it. Is this a bad sign? I 
hope not. 

Friday, May 31. — The hardest thing to bear is to be 
continually disappointed in those nearest to us. To 
find a serpent where one had expected to find flowers, 
that is indeed horrible. But these constant shocks 
have produced in me at last a species of indifference to 
them. No matter what is passing around me I take 
no notice now. I put my head out of the door only to 
go to the studio. 

You think, perhaps, that this is the resignation of 
despair; it is the result of despair, but it is a sweet 
and tranquil feeling, although a sad one. 



1 84 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1878. 

Instead of being rose-colored my life is gray, that is 
all. 

I have accepted my fate and I am resigned to it. 

My character has changed completely, and the 
change seems to be a permanent one; I no longer have 
need even of wealth ; two black blouses a year, a change 
of linen that I could wash myself on Sundays, and the 
simplest food, provided it does not taste of onions and 
is fresh, and — the means to work; these are all I want. 

No carriages; the omnibus or to go on foot: at the 
studio I wear shoes without heels. 

But why live at all then? In the hope that better 
days will come, and that is a hope that never abandons 
us. 

Everything is relative: thus, compared to my past 
tortures the present is ease; I enjoy it as an agreeable 
change. In January I will be nineteen: Moussia will 
be nineteen. It is absurd; it is impossible; it is fright- 
ful. 

Sometimes I am seized with a fancy to dress myself, 
to go out for a walk, to go to the opera, to the Bois, to 
the Salon, to the Exhibition; but I say to myself, 
"What for?" and I sink back again into my former 
state of apathy. 

For every word I write I think a million thoughts; 
I express my thoughts only by fragments. 

What a misfortune for posterity ! 

It may not be a misfortune for posterity, but it pre- 
vents me from being able to make myself understood. 

I am jealous of Breslau; she does not draw at all like 
a woman. Next week I will work so hard ! — you shall 
see. The afternoons shall be devoted to the Exhibition, 
and the Salon. But the week after — — I am resolved 
to be a great artist, and I will be one. 

Monday, June 3. — In heart, soul, and thought I am a 
republican. 



1878.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 185 

Let titles be preserved, but let there be equality of 
rights before the law; any other sort of equality than 
this is impossible. 

Let ancient families continue to be respected, foreign 
potentates honored; let arts and all that contributes 
to the comfort and the elegance of life be protected. 
The republicans are reproached with having in their 
ranks a few miserable wretches. And where is the 
party that has not had such? 

If France were to become altogether Legitimist or 
altogether Imperialist, would every one then be* pure 
and virtuous? — Good-night — I write so fast that what 
I am saying is little better than the ravings of a lunatic. 

Wednesday, June 12. — To-morrow I resume my work, 
which I have neglected since Saturday. My conscience 
reproaches me for it, and to-morrow everything will 
return to its accustomed order. . . . 

M. Rouher surprised me in many things. I was 
surprised at myself for employing so much tact and so 
much delicate flattery. Gavini and the Baron evi- 
dently approved of me unreservedly, and M. Rouher 
himself was pleased. They talked of votes, of laws, of 
pamphlets, of loyalists, of traitors, before me. Did 
I listen? You may well believe it. It was like the 
opening of a door into Paradise. 

I am sorry I am a woman, and M. Rouher is sorry he 
is a man. "Women," he said, "are exempt from the 
annoyances and the cares that we have." 

"Will you permit me to remark, Monsieur," I said, 
"that men and women alike have their cares and their 
annoyances; the only difference is that the cares of 
men bring with them honors, fame, and popularity; 
while the cares of women are attended by no advan- 
tage whatever." 

"You believe, then, Mademoiselle, that our cares 
always bring us those compensations?" 



i86 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1878. 

"I think, Monsieur," I answered, "that that depends 
upon the man." 

It must not be supposed that I entered all at once 
into the conversation like this; I remained quietly 
in my corner for fully ten minutes, embarrassed enough, 
for the old fox did not seem to be charmed at the pres- 
entation. 

Shall I tell you something? 

I was enchanted. 

Now I have a mind to repeat to you all the fine things 
I said, but I must not. I will only say that I did my 
best not to use hackneyed phrases, and to appear full 
of good sense; in that way you will think my speeches 
finer than they really were. 

Gavini remarked that the Bonapartists were happy 
in having the sympathies of all the pretty women with 
them, bowing to me as he said so. 

"Monsieur," I answered, addressing myself to M. 
Rouher, "I do not give my sympathies to your party 
as a woman, I give them as an honest man might do." 

Wednesday, July 3. — M came to say good-by, 

and as it was raining, he proposed to accompany us to 
the Exhibition. 

We accepted; before we went, however, he and I 
being alone together for a moment, he entreated me 
not to be so cruel. 

"You know how madly I love you," he said, "and 
how much you make me suffer. If you could but know 
how terrible a thing it is to see only mocking smiles, to 
hear only words of raillery when one truly loves. " 

"You only imagine all that." 

"Oh, no, I swear it to you; I am ready to give you 
the proofs of it — the most absolute devotion, the 
fidelity and the patience of a dog ! Say but a word ! say 
that you have some confidence in me — why do you 
treat me as a buffoon, as a being of an inferior race? " 



1878.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 187 

"I treat you as I treat everybody." 

"And why? since you know that my affection is not 
like that of everybody — that I am heart and soul 
devoted to you?" 

"I am accustomed to inspiring that sentiment." 

"But not such a love as mine. Let me believe that 
your feelings toward me are not altogether those of 
hatred." 

" Of hatred? Oh, no; I assure you they are not that." 

"The most terrible feeling of all for me would be 
indifference." 

"Ah, well! " 

"Promise me that you will not forget me in the few 
months I shall be away." 

"It will not be in my power to do so." 

"Let me remind you from time to time that I am 
still in existence. Perhaps I may amuse you, perhaps 
I may make you laugh. Let me hope that sometimes 
occasionally, you will send me a word — a single word." 

"What is it you are saying?" 

"Oh, without signing your name; simply this: 'I 
am well'; only this, and that will make me so happy." 

"Whatever I write I sign my name to, and I never 
deny my signature." 

"You will grant me your permission to write?" 

"I am like Figaro; I receive letters from all quarters." 

"God! if you but knew how maddening it is never to 
be able to obtain a serious word — to be always scoffed 
at! Let us talk seriously. You will not let it be said 
that you had no pity for me in the moment of my 
departure! If I might only hope that my devotion, 
my regard for you, my love — impose any conditions 
you choose, put me to the test. If I might only hope 
that one day you will be kinder, that you will not always 
mock me?" 

"As far as tests are concerned," I replied very seri- 
ously, "there is only one test that can be relied upon." 



188 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1878. 

"And that? I am ready to do anything." 

"That is time." 

" Be it so, then. Put my affection to the test of time; 
you shall see that it will stand it." 

"That would cause me great pleasure." 

"But tell me, have you confidence in me?" 1 

" How, confidence? I have confidence enough in you 
to entrust you with a letter with the certainty that you 
will not open it." 

"Noljnot that! but an absolute confidence." 

1 ' What grand words ! ' ' 

"And is not my love for you something grand?" he 
said softly. 

" I ask nothing better than to believe it; such things 
flatter a woman's vanity. And, stay, I should really 
like to have some confidence in you." 

"Truly?" 

"Truly." 

This is enough, is it not ? We went to the Exhibition, 

and I was vexed to see that M was in high spirits, 

and made love to me as if I had accepted him. 

I experienced a feeling of genuine satisfaction this 

evening. I find that M 's love produces precisely 

the same emotions in me as did that of A . You 

see, then, that I did not love Pietro! I was not even 
for a moment in love with him, though I came very 
near being so. But you know what a horrible disen- 
chantment that was. 

You understand that I have no intention of marrying 
M . 

"True love is always a sentiment to be respected," I 
said to him; "you have no reason to be ashamed of 
yours; only don't get foolish notions into your head." 

-"Give me your friendship." 

"Vain word!" 

S "Then your " 

'"Your demands are exorbitant." 



1878.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 189 

"But what am I to say, then? You are not willing 
that I should try to gain your affection by degrees — 
that I should begin by friendship " 

4 ' Friendship ! A chimera ! ' ' 

"Love, then?" 

"You are mad." 

"And why?" 

"Because I hate you!" 

Friday, July 5. . . . After the concert my aunt took 
the arm of Etienne, Dina Philippines, and I the other's. 

The night was so lovely that we walked home. M -, 

who was restored to good-humor, spoke to me of his 
affection for me. It is always thus; I do not love him, 
but the fire of his love warms me ; this is the same feeling 
that I mistook for love two years ago! 

I was touched by the words he spoke; he even shed 
tears. As we approached the house I grew more 
serious; I was moved by the beauty of the night and 
by those melodious words of love. Ah, how delightful 
it is to be loved! There is nothing in the world so 

delightful as that. I know now that M loves me. 

One does not act a part like that. And if it were my 
money he wanted, my disdain would have caused him 
to abandon his pretensions before this; and there is 
Dina, whom every one believes to be as rich as I, and 

plenty of other girls he might marry if he chose. M 

is not a beggar; he is in every sense a gentleman. He 
could have found, and he will find, some one else to 
love. 

M is very amiable. Perhaps it was wrong'of me 

to let him hold my hand in his as long as he did when 
we were about to part. He kissed it; but I owed him 
that much; and then he loves me and respects me so 
much, poor fellow! I questioned him as if he were a 
child. I wanted to know how it had happened, and 
when. He fell in love with me at first sight, it seems. 



igo JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1878. 

"But it is a strange kind of love," he said; "other 
women are to me only women, but you are a being 
superior to the rest of humanity; it is a curious senti- 
ment. I know that you treat me as if I was a hump- 
backed buffoon; that you have no feeling, no heart; 
and yet I love you. And I — at the same time that I 
adore you I know that our characters are not con- 
genial." 

I listened to all he had to say, for to tell the truth a 
lover's speeches are more amusing than all the plays 
in the world, unless when one goes to them to show 
herself. But that, too, is a sort of adoration; you are 
looked at, you are admired, and you feel your being 
expand like the flower under the rays of the sun. 

Soden, Sunday, July 7. — We left Paris for this place 
at seven. . . . Imagine yourself transported from 
Paris to Soden. "The silence of death" feebly de- 
scribes the calm that reigns at Soden. I am confused 
by it as one is confused by too much noise. . . . 

Dr. Tilenius has just gone. He put the necessary 
questions to me regarding my illness, but did not say 
afterwards, like the French doctor: 

"Very good; this is nothing; in a week we shall have 
you well, Mademoiselle." 

To-morrow I am to begin a course of treatment. 

The trees here are beautiful, the air is pure, the land- 
scape sets off my face. At Paris I am only pretty, if 
I am that; here there is in my appearance a certain 
poetic languor; my eyes are larger, and my cheeks less 
rounded. 

Soden, Tuesday, July 9. — How tired I am of all these 
doctors! I have had my throat examined — pharyn- 
gitis, laryngitis, and catarrh ! Nothing more. ! 

I amuse myself reading Livy and taking notes of 



1878.I JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 191 

what I read in the evening. I must read Roman his- 
tory. 

Tuesday, July 16. — I am resolved on being famous, 
whether it be as an artist or in any other way. Do not 
think, however, that I am studying art only through 
vanity. Perhaps there are not many persons more 
completely artistic in their natures than I — a fact 
which you who are the intelligent part of my readers 
must have already perceived. As for the others, I 
regard them with contempt. They will find me only 
fantastic, because, without desiring to be so, I am 
peculiar in everything. 

Wednesday, July 24. — Dr. Tomachewsky, who is 
physician to the opera-troupe at St. Petersburg, must 
know something; besides his opinion is the same as 
that of Dr. Fauvel and the others; and then I know 
myself that the waters at Soden, from their chemical 
composition, are hardly suited to my disease. If you 
are not very ignorant, you must know that they send 
only convalescents and consumptives to Soden. 

At six o'clock this morning my aunt and I, accom- 
panied by Dr. Tomachewsky, went to Ems, to consult 
the doctors there. 

We have just returned. 

The Empress Eugenie is at Ems. Poor woman! 

Friday. — For some days past I have been thinking of 
Nice. I was fifteen when I was there, and how pretty 
I was! My figure, my feet, and my hands were not 
perhaps as perfect as now, but my face was ravishing. 
It has never been the same since. On my return to 
Rome, Count Laurenti almost made a scene about me. 

"Your face has changed," he said; "the features, 
the coloring are as before, but the expression is not the 
same. You willjiever again be like that portrait." 



192 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1878. 

He alluded to the portrait in which I am represented 
resting my elbows on the table and my cheek on my 
clasped hands.* "You look as if you had fallen nat- 
urally into that position, and with your eyes fixed 
upon the future, were asking yourself, half in terror, 
* Is that what life is like? ' " 

At fifteen there was a childlike expression in my face 
that was not there before, and has not been there since, 
and this is the most captivating of all expressions. 

Wednesday , August 7. — My God, ordain that I may 
go to Rome. If you only knew, my God, how I long 
to go there! My God, be merciful to your unworthy 
creature! My God, ordain that I may go to Rome! 
No doubt it will not be possible for me to go, for that 
would be too happy ! 

It is not Livy who has been putting these thoughts 
into my head, for I have neglected my old friend for 
several days past. 

No; but only to remember the Campagna, the Piazza 
del Popolo, and the Pincio, with the rays of the setting 
sun shining upon it! 

And that divine, that adorable morning twilight, 
when the rays of the rising sun begin to give form and 
color to surrounding objects — what a blank every- 
where else! And what sacred emotions the remem- 
brance of the wondrous, the enchanted city awakens! 
Nor am I the only one whom Rome inspires with these 
feelings, which no words can be found to express — 
feelings due to the mysterious influence exercised over 
the mind by the blending of the traditions of the fab- 
ulous past with the sanctified associations of the pres- 
ent, or perhaps — But no, I cannot explain what I 
would say. If I were in love, it is in Rome, in the 
presence of the setting sun, as its last rays fall upon the 

* See Frontispiece. 



1878.I JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 193 

divine dome, that I would make the avowal to him I 
loved. 

If I were to receive some crushing blow, it is to Rome 
I would go to weep and pray with my eyes fixed upon 
that dome. If I were to become the happiest of human 
beings, it is there, too, that I would go. 

Paris, Saturday, August 17. — This morning we were 
still at Soden. 

I detest Paris. I do not deny that it may be pos- 
sible to live there happier and more contented than 
elsewhere; that one may lead there a completer, a 
more intellectual, a more renowned existence. But for 
the kind of life I lead one needs to love the city itself. 
I find cities, like individuals, sympathetic or antipa- 
thetic to me, and I cannot succeed in liking Paris. 

I am afflicted with a terrible disease. I am disgusted 
with myself. It is not the first time I hate myself, 
but that does not make it the less terrible. 

To hate another whom one may avoid is bad enough, 
but to hate one's-self — that is terrible. 

Thursday, August 29. — I don't know by what provi- 
dential chance I happened to be late this morning, but 
they came at nine, before I was yet dressed, to tell me 
that grandpapa was worse. Mamma, my aunt, and 
Dina were crying. ... At ten the priest arrived and 
in a few minutes all was over. 

Wednesday, September 4. — Kant has said that the 
material world exists only in the imagination. That 
is going too far, but I accept his system when the do- 
main of feeling is in question. In effect, our feelings 
are caused by the impressions produced on us by 
things or persons; but, since objects are not objects — 
in other words, since they possess no objective value 
and exist only in our minds — But in order to follow up 



IQ4 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1878. 

this train of argument, it would be necessary for me 
not to have to hurry to bed, and think at what hour in 
the morning I must begin my picture to have it finished 
by Saturday. . . . 

I have a passion for all those learned, patiently con- 
ducted, abracadabrante follies — these arguments, these 
deductions, so logical, so learned. There is only one 
thing about them that grieves me, and that is that I 
feel them to be false, though I have neither the time 
nor the inclination to find out why. 

I should like to have some one to discuss all these 
matters with. I lead a very lonely life. But I declare 
beforehand that I have no desire to impose my own 
opinions on other people, and that I would willingly 
acknowledge the justness of their arguments when I 
saw them to be in the right. 

Without wishing to be thought ridiculous by the 
pretension, I long to listen to the discourse of learned 
men; I long, oh, so much, to penetrate into the pre- 
cincts of the intellectual world; to see, to hear, to 
learn. But I neither know how to set about doing so 
myself, nor whom to ask advice of; and I remain here 
in my corner, dazed and wondering, not knowing what 
direction to take, and catching glimpses on all sides of 
treasures of art, of history, of languages, science — a 
whole world in short. I long to see everything, to know 
everything, to learn everything! 

Friday, September 13. — I am not in my right place in 
the world. . . . There are statues that are admirable, 
set on a pedestal in the middle of a grand square, but 
put them in a room and you will see how stupid they 
look, and how much they are in the way. You will 
knock your head or your elbow against them a 
dozen times a day, and you will end by finding detest- 
able and unbearable that which, in its proper place, 
would have excited the admiration of every one. 



1878J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 195 

If you find "statue" too flattering a word for me, 
change it for — whatever word you choose. 



Saturday, September 21. — When I have finished Livy 
I shall read Michelet's history of France, and after- 
ward the Greek authors, whom I know only from allu- 
sions to them or quotations from them in other books, 
and then — My books are all packed away, and we 
must take a more settled lodging than our present one 
before unpacking them. 

I have read Aristophanes, Plutarch, Herodotus, a 
little of Xenophon, and that is all, I think. And then 
I am very familiar with Homer, and slightly so with 
Plato. 

Thursday, October 3. — We spent almost four hours 
to-day at a dramatic and musical international enter- 
tainment. They gave scenes from Aristophanes in 
hideous costumes and so abridged, arranged, and altered 
that it was frightful. 

What was superb, however, was a dramatic recita- 
tion — Christopher Columbus — in Italian, by Rossi. 
What a voice! What intonation! What expression! 
What truth to nature! It was better than the music. 
I think one could feel the charm of it even without 
understanding a word of Italian. 

I almost worshiped him as I listened. 

Ah, what a power lies in spoken words, even when 
they are not our own words, but those of another! 
The handsome Mounet-Sully recited afterward, but I 
shall say nothing of him. Rossi is a great artist; he 
has the soul of an artist; I saw him talking with two 
men at the door of the theater, and he had a common 
air. He is an actor, it is true, but so great an actor 
as he is should have a certain greatness of character 
even in every-day life. I noticed his eyes; they are 



196 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1878. 

not those of a common man, though the charm exists 
only while he speaks. Then it is wonderful! What 
nihilists are those who despise the arts! 

What a frightful existence mine is! If I possessed 
genius I might be able to change it, but my genius must 
be taken on trust ; you have nothing but my word for it. 
Where have I given any proof, any evidence, of genius? 

Monday, October 7. — Stupid people may fancy that I 
want to be another Balzac. I have no such intention; 
but do you know why he is so great? It is because 
he describes with naturalness, without fear, and with- 
out affectation all that he has felt. Almost every in- 
telligent person has had the same thoughts, but who 
has expressed them as he has? 

No, it is not true that almost every one has had the 
same thoughts but in reading Balzac one is so struck 
with his truth, with his naturalness, that one thinks 
one has. It has happened to me a hundred times in 
conversation, or in reflection, to be horribly tormented 
by thoughts that I had not the power to disentangle 
from the frightful chaos of my mind. 

I have also another pretension; it is this: when I 
make any just or profound observation I fear people 
may not understand me. 

Perhaps, indeed, they do not understand me as I 
wish to be understood. 

Good-night, good people. 

Sunday, October 20. — I ordered the carriage at nine 
o'clock this morning, and accompanied by my demoiselle 
d'konneur, Mile. Elsnitz, went to visit Saint-Philippe's, 
the church of St. Thomas Aquinas and Notre Dame. 
I went up into the tower and examined the bells just 
as any Englishwoman might have done. Well, there 



1878.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 197 

is a Paris to be admired — it is old Paris; and one might 
be happy there, but only on condition of keeping away 
from the boulevards and the Champs Elysees; in 
fine, from all the new and beautiful quarters of the city 
which I detest, and which irritate my nerves. In the 
Faubourg Saint-Germain, however, one feels alto- 
gether different. 

We went afterward to the School of Fine Arts; it is 
enough to make one cry out with rage. 

Why can I not study there? Why can I not have a 
course of instruction as complete as that? I went to 
see the exhibition of the Prix de Rome. The second 
prize was awarded to a pupil of Julian's. Julian is 
consequently very happy. If I am ever rich I will 
found a school of arts for women. 



Saturday, October 26. — My painting was much better 
than the previous ones, and my drawing from the nude 

very good. M. T distributed the prizes at the 

concours — Breslau first, I second. 

In short, I ought to be satisfied. 

Sunday \ November 3. — Mamma, Dina, Mme. X 

and I went to-day to take an airing together. They 
want to marry me, but I told them plainly, so as not 
to be made use of to enrich some monsieur, that I was 
quite willing to marry, but only on condition that the 
person should be either rich, of a good family and hand- 
some, or else a man of genius, or of note. As for his 
character, if he were Satan himself, I will take charge of 
that. 

Saturday, November 9. — It is a shameful thing! 
There was no medal at all! All the same, I am first; 



198 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1878 

I think I should have been so even if Breslau had ex- 
hibited, in which case they would have made two firsts. 
This has nothing to do with the matter, — however, the 
fact is the same. 

Wednesday, November 13. — Robert-Fleury came to 
the studio this evening. It would be useless to repeat 
the words of encouragement he spoke after giving me a 
long lesson ; if what they all say be true, you will know 
by the time you read this what opinion to entertain 
of me. 

It is a happiness, all the same, however, to find that 
people take you altogether in earnest. I am very silly; 
I entertain the greatest hopes with regard to myself, 
and when people tell me I have realized them I am 
transported with joy, as if I had never had any hopes 
at all. I am as much surprised at my good fortune, and 
as delighted with it, as a monster might be with whom 
the most beautiful woman in the world had fallen in 
love. 

Robert-Fleury is an excellent teacher: he leads one 
onward by degrees, so that one is conscious at every 
step of the progress one is making. To-night he 
treated me somewhat like a pupil who has learned her 
scales and to whom for the first time a piece of music 
is given to play. He has lifted the corner of the veil 
and disclosed to me a vaster horizon. It is a night that 
will hold a place apart in my studies. 

In the matter of drawing I am the equal of Breslau, 
but she has had more practice than I. Now, I must 
give myself a certain number of months to paint as she 
does, for, if I cannot do that there is nothing extraordi- 
nary in my work. But she will not stand still during 
the eight or ten months I shall allow myself. I should 
therefore be obliged to progress so fast as to make up 
this time in the eight or ten months we shall continue 



1878.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 199 

working together, which does not seem to me probable. 
Well, by the grace of God, we shall see. 

I looked all of a sudden so beautiful, after I had 
taken my bath this evening, that I spent fully twenty 
minutes admiring myself in the glass. I am sure no 
one could have seen me without admiration; my com- 
plexion was absolutely dazzling, but soft and delicate, 
with a faint rose tint in the cheeks ; to indicate force of 
character there was nothing but the lips and the eyes 
and eyebrows. 

Do not, I beg of you, think me blinded by vanity: 
when I do not look pretty I can see it very well; and 
this is the first time that I have looked pretty in a long 
while. Painting absorbs everything. 

What is odious to think of is that all this must one 
day fade, shrivel up, and perish! 

Thursday, November 21. — Breslau has painted a cheek 
so true to nature, so perfect, that I, a woman and a 
rival artist, felt like kissing it. 

Friday, November 22. — I am terrified when I think of 
the future that awaits Breslau; it fills me with wonder 
and sadness. 

In her compositions there is nothing womanish, com- 
monplace, or disproportioned. She will attract atten- 
tion at the Salon, for, in addition to her treatment of it, 
the subject itself will not be a common one. It is 
stupid, indeed, of me to be jealous of her. I am a 
child in art, and she is a woman. For the moment the 
light seems hidden, and everything is dark before me. 

Friday, December 27. — This week has been lost to me 
for study. For the past three days I have wanted to 
write down some reflections — what about, I do not 



200 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. [1878. 

exactly know; but, distracted from my purpose by 
the singing of the young lady on the second story, I 
began to glance through the account of my journey 
in Italy, and afterward some one came to interrupt me, 
and I lost the thread of my ideas, together with that 
feeling of gentle melancholy in which it is so pleasant 
to indulge. 

What surprises me now is to see what grandiloquent 
words I employed to describe the simplest incidents. 

But my mind was full of lofty sentiments, and it 
irritated me to have no wonderful, startling, or ro- 
mantic situations to describe, and I interpreted my feel- 
ings. Artists will know what I mean. This is very 
well; but what I cannot understand is how a girl who 
pretends to be intelligent did not better learn to esti- 
mate the value of men and things. I say this because 
the thought has just suggested itself to me that my 
family ought to have enlightened me on such subjects, 

and told me, for instance, that A was a person of 

no worth, and one on whose account one should not 
give one's-self the slightest concern. It is true that 
they took a mistaken view of the matter altogether, 
my mother having even less experience of the world 
than I, but that is only by the way, and, as I had so 
high an opinion of my own intelligence, I should have 
made some use of it, and treated him as I did others, 
instead of bestowing so much attention on him, both in 
my journal and elsewhere. 

But I was burning with the desire to have something 
romantic to record, and, fool that I was! things could 
not have turned out less romantic than they did. In a 
word, I was young and inexperienced; notwithstand- 
ing all my folly and all my boasting this is the con- 
fession I must make at last, no matter what it costs 
me to do so. 

And now I think I hear some one say: "A strong- 



1878.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 201 

minded woman such as you should never have occa- 
sion to retract her words." 

Sunday, December 29. — I have lost my hold on art, 
and I cannot take up anything else in its place. My 
books are packed up, I am losing my knowledge of 
Latin and of classic literature, and I am growing alto- 
gether stupid. The sight of a temple, a column, or an 
Italian landscape fills me with loathing for this Paris, so 
cold, so learned, so wise, so polished. The men here 
are ugly. This city, which is a paradise for superior 
natures, has no charms for me. Ah, I have deceived 
myself: I am neither wise nor happy. I long to go to 
Italy, to travel, to see mountains, lakes, forests, seas. 
In the company of my family, with parcels, recrimina- 
tions, annoyances, the petty disputes of every day? 
Ah, no; a hundred times no? To enjoy the delights 

of travel one must wait for . And the time is 

passing. Well, so much the worse. I might marry an 
Italian prince at any time, if I wished to do so. Let me 
then, wait. 

You see if I married an Italian prince I might still be 
an artist, since the money would be mine. But then I 
should have to give him some of it. Meantime I shall 
remain here and work on at my painting. 

On Saturday they thought my drawing not at all 
bad. — You understand that it is only with an Italian 
I could live in France, where I wish to live, according 
to my own ideas; and in Italy — ah! what a delightful 
life! I shall spend my time between Paris and Italy. 



202 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASBKIRTSEFF. [1879. 



1879. 



Thursday, January 2. — What I long for is to be able 
to go out alone ! To come and go ; to sit down on a 
bench in the Garden of the Tuileries, or, better still, 
of the Luxembourg; to stand looking into the artis- 
tically arranged shop windows; to visit the churches 
and the museums ; to stroll through the old streets of 
the city in the evening. 

Friday, January 10. — Robert-Fleury came to the 
studio this evening. . . . 

If my art does not soon bring me fame, I shall kill 
myself, and end the whole matter at once. This reso- 
lution I took some months ago. When I was in Russia 
I thought of killing myself, but the fear of a here- 
after deterred me. I shall give myself till thirty, for 
up to that age one may still hope to acquire fortune, 
or happiness, or glory, or whatever it is one desires. 
So then that is settled, and if I am sensible, I shall 
torment myself no more either now or in the future. 

Saturday, January II. — They think at the studio 
that I go a great deal into society; this, together with 
the difference in station, separates me from the other 
pupils, and prevents my asking them any favors as 
they do among themselves ; as, for instance, to accom- 
pany me to the house of an artist or to a studio. 

I worked faithfully all the week up to ten o'clock 
on Saturday night, then I came home and sat down 
to cry. Heretofore I have always asked the help of 
God in my troubles, but as He does not seem to listen 
to me at all, I scarcely believe in Him any longer. 

Those who have experienced this feeling will under- 
stand all the horror of it. 



1879.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 203 

Tuesday, January. — I did not awake this morning 
till half-past eleven. The prizes were awarded by the 
three Professors, Lefebvre, Robert-Fleury, and Bou- 
langer. I did not go to the studio until one o'clock, 
to learn the result. The first words I heard on enter- 
ing were: 

"Well, Mile. Marie, come and receive your medal. ,, 



Wednesday, January. — I have been dreaming all 
day of a blue sea, white sails, a luminous sky. — On 

entering the studio this morning I found P there. 

He goes to Rome in a week, he says, and while we 
were talking he mentioned Katorbinsky and others of 
our friends; and I — I felt myself grow faint, before 
the vista opened up to me by his words, of sculptured 
stones, of ruins, of statues, of churches. And the 
Campagna, — that "desert," — yes, but I adore that 
desert. And there are others, thank Heaven! who 
adore it too. 

Sunday, February 16. — Yesterday I received a scold- 
ing. 

"I do not understand how it is that with your talent 
you find it so difficult to paint," said Julian. 

Nor I either, but I seem paralyzed; there is no use 
in keeping up the struggle any longer. There is noth- 
ing left me but to die. My God, my God ! Is there, 
then, nothing to be hoped for from anyone? What 
is detestable to think of is, that I have just filled up 
the fire-place with wood without any necessity for it, 
for I was not at all cold, while there are miserable 
creatures who are at this very moment, perhaps, cry- 
ing with cold and hunger. It is reflections such as 
these that are most effectual in drying the tears I love 
to shed. And yet I sometimes think that I would as 
soon be at the lowest depths of misery as where I am j 



204 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1879. 

for when one has touched bottom, there is nothing 
further to be feared. 

Tuesday, February 18. — I threw myself on my knees 
beside my bed just now to implore God for justice, 
pity, or pardon! If I have not merited the tortures 
I endure, let Him grant me justice! If I have com- 
mitted evil deeds, let Him grant me pardon! If He 
exists, and is such as we are taught to believe Him 
to be, He should be just, He should pity, He should 
pardon. I have only Him left me ; it is natural there- 
fore that I should seek Him and entreat Him not to 
abandon me to despair ; not to lead me into sin ; not to 
suffer me to doubt, to blaspheme, to die. 

Doubtless my sufferings are no greater than my sins ; 
I am continually committing petty sins that amount to 
a frightful total in the end. 

Just now I spoke to my aunt harshly, but I could 
not help it. She came into my room while I was cry- 
ing, with my face buried in my hands, and calling 
on God to help me. Ah, misery of miseries! 

No one must see me weep ; it might be thought my 
tears were caused by disappointed love, and that — 
would make me shed tears of rage. 

Wednesday, February 19. — I must do something to 
amuse myself. I say this from the stupid habit we 
have of repeating what we read in books. Why should 
I amuse myself ? I still find pleasure in being miser- 
able ; and then I am not like other people, and I detest 
doing the things other people do to preserve their 
moral or their physical health, for I have no faith in 
them. 

Nice, Friday, February 21. — Well, I am at Nice! 

I had a longing to luxuriate in pure air, to bask in 

the sunshine, and to listen to the sound of the waves. 



1879-1 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 205 

Do you love the sea? I love it to distraction; it is 
only in Rome that I forget it — almost. 

I came here with Paul. We were taken for husband 
and wife, which annoyed me exceedingly. As our 
villa is rented, we put up at the Hotel du Pare — our 
old Villa d'Acqua-Viva, that we occupied eight years 
ago. Eight years ! — This is a pleasure trip. We are 
going to dine at London House. Antoine, the maitre- 
d'hotel, came to pay his respects to me, as did several 
of the shop women also; and all the drivers smiled 
and bowed, and the one we selected complimented 
me on my height — he recognized me ; and then another 
offered his services, saying he had served Mme. Ro- 
manoff; and afterward I met my friends of the Rue 
de France. All this is very agreeable, and these good 
people have given me a great deal of pleasure. 

The night was beautiful, and I stole out alone and 
did not return to the house until ten o'clock. I wanted 
to wander on the sea-shore, and sing to the accom- 
paniment of the waves. There was not a living soul 
near, and the night was enchanting, especially after 
Paris. Paris ! 

Saturday, February 22. — What difference between 
this place and Paris! Here I awake by myself; the 
windows remain open all night. The room I occupy 
is the one in which I used to take drawing-lessons 
from Binsa. I see the first rays of the sun gilding 
the tops of the trees beside the fountain in the middle 
of the garden, as I used to see them then every morn- 
ing. My little study has the same paper on the walls 
as then — the paper I chose myself. Probably it is oc- 
cupied by some barbarian of an Englishman. I was 
able to recognize it only by the paper, for they have 
made a new corridor that confuses me. 

We will dine at London House while we remain at 



2o6 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. [1879. 

Nice. One sees every one there, especially during the 
Carnival. 

Sunday, February 23. — Yesterday we went to Mo- 
naco. This nest of cocottes is more hateful to me than 
I can find words to express. I remained in the place 
only ten minutes, but that was enough, as I did not 
play. 

Monday, February 24. — I am always happy when 
I can take a solitary walk. The sea was unspeakably 
beautiful to-night; before going to hear Patti I went 
to listen to the sound of the waves. It had been rain- 
ing, and the air was delightfully fresh and pleasant. 
How soothing it is to the eyes to let them rest on the 
deep blue of the sky and of the sea at night ! 

Paris, Monday, March 3. — We left Nice yesterday 
at noon. The weather was superb, and I could not 
help shedding tears of genuine regret at leaving this 
delightful and incomparable country. From my win- 
dow I could see the garden, the Promenade des 
Anglais, and all the elegance of Paris. From the corri- 
dor I could see the Rue de France, with its old Italian 
ruins, and its lanes, with its picturesque lights and 
shadows. And all the people who knew me — "That is 
Mademoiselle Marie," they would say, when I 
passed by. ^ 

I should now like to leave Paris. My mind is dis- 
tracted, and I have lost all hope. I no longer expect 
anything; I no longer hope for anything; I am re- 
signed, with the resignation of despair. I grope my 
way darkly in search of light, but find none. I breathe 
a sigh that leaves my heart more oppressed than be- 
before. — Tell. me, what would you do in my place? 

Wednesday, March 5. — To-morrow I begin to work 



I879-] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 207 

again! I will give myself another year — a whole 
year, during which I will work harder than ever. What 
good will it do to despair ? Yes, we can say that when 
we are beginning to get out of our difficulties, but not 
while we are in the midst of them. 

Saturday, June 21 — For almost thirty-six hours I 
have done nothing but cry, and last night I went to bed 
exhausted. As I was about to leave the studio at noon 
yesterday, Julian called to the servant through the 
speaking-tube; she put her ear to the tube, and then 
said to us with some emotion: 

"Ladies, M. Julian desires me to tell you that the 
Prince Imperial is dead." 

I gave a cry and sat down on the coal-box. Then 
as every one began to talk at once, Rosalie said : 

"A moment's silence if you please, ladies. The news 
is official; a telegram has just been received. He 
has been killed by the Zulus ; that is what M. Julian 
says." 

The news had already begun to spread; so that 
when they brought me the Estafette, with the words 
in capital letters, "Death of the Prince Imperial," I 
cannot express how much I was shocked. 

And then, no matter to what party one may belong, 
whether one be a Frenchman or a foreigner, it is im- 
possible to avoid sharing in the feeling of consterna- 
tion with which the news has been everywhere re- 
ceived. 

One thing I will say, however, which none of the 
papers has said, and that is that the English are 
cowards and assassins. There is something mysterious 
about this death; there must be both treachery and 
crime at the bottom of it. Was it natural that a prince 
on whom all the hopes of his party were fixed should 
be thus exposed to danger, — an only son? I think 
there is no one so devoid of feeling as not to be moved 



208 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1879. 

at the thought of this mothers anguish. The most 
dire misfortune, the crudest of losses, may still leave 
some gleam of hope in the future, some possibility of 
consolation. This leaves none. One may say with 
truth that this is a grief like no other. It was because 
of her that he went; she gave him no peace; she tor- 
mented him ; she refused to allow him more than five 
hundred francs a month — a sum upon which he could 
hardly contrive to live. The mother and son parted 
on bad terms with each other ! 

Do you perceive the horror of the thing? Can you 
understand how this mother must feel. 

England has treated the Bonapartes shamefully on 
every occasion when they were so blind as to ask the 
help of that ignoble country, and it fills me with 
hatred and rage to think of it. 

Sunday, August 3. — My dog Coco II. has disap- 
peared. 

You cannot conceive what a grief this is to me. 

Monday, August 4. — I could not sleep last night 
thinking of my poor little dog. I even condescended 
to shed a few tears for him, after which I prayed to 
God that I might find him again. I have a special 
prayer that I repeat to myself whenever I want to ask 
for anything. I cannot remember ever to have said 
it without receiving some consolation. 

This morning they wakened me to give me my dog, 
which had been found, and the ungrateful creature 
was so hungry that he showed scarcely any joy at 
seeing me. 

Mamma exclaims that it is a miracle to have found 
him, as we have already lost four dogs and never 
found any of them before. She would not be so sur- 
prised, though, if I were to tell her of my prayer. 
I confide it only to my diary, however, and I am not 



I879-] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 209 

quite satisfied with myself in doing even this. There 
are secret thoughts and prayers which to repeat aloud 
makes one seem foolish or ridiculous. 

Saturday, August 9. — Shall I go or stay? The 
trunks are already packed. My physician does not 
appear to believe in the efficacy of the waters of Mont- 
Dore. No matter, I shall have rest there. And when 
I come back I shall lead a life of incredible activity. 
I will paint while there is daylight, and model in the 
evening. 

Wednesday, August 13. — At one o'clock yesterday 
we arrived at Dieppe. 

Are all seaport towns alike ? I have been at Ostend, 
at Calais, at Dover, and now I am at Dieppe. They 
all smell of tar, of boats, of ropes, and of tarpaulin. 
It is windy ; one is exposed to the weather on all sides, 
and one feels miserable. It is like being sea-sick. 
How different from the Mediterranean! There one 
can breathe freely and there is something to admire; 
one is comfortable, and there are none of the vile 
smells that are here. I would prefer a little green nest 
like Soden or Schlangenbad, or what I imagine Mont- 
Dore to be, to this place. 

I have come here to breathe good air, ah, — well! 
doubtless outside the city and the port the air is better. 
None of these Northern sea-ports please me. From 
none of the hotels, below the third story, is a view of 
the sea to be had. O Nice ! O San Remo ! O Naples ! 
O Sorrento! you are not unmeaning names; your 
beauties have not been exaggerated, nor profaned by 
guide-books ! You are indeed beautiful and delightful 
cities ! 

Saturday, August 16. — We laugh a good deal, 
though I find this place very tiresome ; but it is in my 



2io JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1879. 

nature to laugh ; it is something altogether independent 
of the humor I am in. 

In former times, when I was at any watering-place 
I took pleasure in watching the passers-by; it 
amused me. 

I have grown completely indifferent to all that now ; 
it is all the same to me whether men or dogs be around 
me. Painting and music are still what I most enjoy. 
I expected to play a very different part in the world 
from the one I am playing; and since it is not what 
I thought it would be, what it is matters little. 

Tuesday, August 19. — I took my first sea-bath to- 
day, and the whole thing disgusted me so much that 
I would have been glad of an excuse to cry. I would 
rather wear the dress of a fisher-girl than clothes that 
look common; my disposition is, besides, an unfortu- 
nate one. I crave an exquisite harmony in all the 
details of life; very often things that are thought by 
others beautiful or elegant shock me by their lack of 
artistic grace. I would like my mother to be elegant 
or spirituelle, or at least dignified and majestic. Life 
is a wretched affair, after all. In truth, it is not right 
that people should be made to suffer thus. 

These are trifles, you say? Everything is relative, 
and if a pin wounds you as sharply as a knife, what 
have the sages to say in the matter? 

Wednesday, August 20. — I think I can never expe- 
rience any feeling into which ambition do^s not enter. 
I despise insignificant people. 

Friday, August 29. — Fatalism is the religion of the 
lazy and the desperate. I am desperate, and I can 
assure you that I am entirely indifferent to life. I 
would not make use of this hackneyed phrase, if this 
feeling were a transitory one; but I am so always, 




Spring 



I879-] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 211 

even when I am most happy. I have a contempt for 
death; if there is nothing beyond — the thing is quite 
simple; and if there is, I commend myself to God. 
But I do not think that in any case I shall be in Para- 
dise; the unhappiness I suffer here will find a con- 
tinuance there; I am doomed to it. 

Monday, September I. — I hope you have noticed the 
great change that has been taking place in me for some 
time past. I have become serious and sensible; and 
then, too, I can better appreciate certain ideas now 
than formerly. Many things in regard to which I had 
no settled convictions I now begin to understand. I 
can see, for instance, how one may cherish as profound 
a sentiment of devotion to an idea, and entertain for 
it a passion as strong, as for an individual. 

Devotion to a prince, or to a dynasty, is a sentiment 
that might arouse my enthusiasm, that might move 
me to tears, and even impel me to action under the 
influence of some powerful emotion, but there is a 
secret feeling within me that makes me distrust these 
fluctuating emotions. Whenever I consider, in regard 
to great men, that they have been the slaves of other 
men, all my admiration for them vanishes. Perhaps 
it may be because of a foolish vanity on my part, 
but I look upon all these servants as little less than 
contemptible, and I am only truly a royalist when I 
put myself in the place of the king. 

As far as I myself am concerned, I might be willing 
to bow the head before a king, but I would neither 
love nor esteem a man who would do so. 

I might accept a constitutional monarchy like that 
of England or of Italy, but even in those there is 
much to object to. It disgusts me to see those salutes 
to the royal family; they are a useless humiliation. 
Where the ruler is in sympathy with the people, as 
was the case with Victor Emmanuel, who was the ex- 



212 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1879. 

ponent and advocate of a great idea, or with Queen 
Margarita, who is both amiable and good, this may 
be tolerated ; but it is much better to have a ruler who 
is chosen by the people, and who, as a consequence, 
will always be in sympathy with them. 

The old order of things is the negation of progress 
and of intelligence. 

Paris, Wednesday, September 17. — To-day, Wed- 
nesday, which is a lucky day of the week for me, and 
the 17th, a lucky day of the month, I made my ar- 
rangements to begin modeling. 

Wednesday, October 1. — The papers have come, 
and I have just finished reading the two hundred pages 
that make the first number of Mme. Adam's review. 
This disturbed me a little, and at four o'clock I left 
the studio to go for a walk in the Bois. I wore 
a new hat which attracted a good deal of attention. 
Now, however, I have become indifferent to such 
things. Mme. Adam has reason to be very happy, I 
think. 

Thursday, October 30. — France is a delightful 
country and an amusing one ; the country of riots, of 
revolutions, of fashion, of wit, of grace, of elegance — 
of everything, in a word, that gives animation, charm, 
and variety to life. But we must look for neither a 
stable government, a virtuous man — virtuous, that is 
to say, in the antique sense of the word — a marriage 
based upon love, or true art. The French painters 
are very good, but, with the exception of Gericault, 
and at present of Bastien-Lepage, the divine spark is 
wanting. And never, never, never, will France pro- 
duce works equal to those which England and Hol- 
land have produced, in a certain style. 

France is a delightful country, where pleasure and 



1879.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 213 

gallantry are concerned, but how about other things? 
It is always this, however; and other countries, with 
all their respectable and solid qualities, are very often 
dull. And then, if I complain of France, it is because 
I am unmarried. France for young girls is an in- 
famous country — the word is not too strong a one. 
Trade, traffic, speculation, are honorable words in their 
proper place, but applied to marriage they are infam- 
ous; yet they are the only words that can justly be 
applied to French marriages. 

Monday, November 10. — I went to church yester- 
day. I go occasionally, so that I may not be thought 
a nihilist. 

Friday, November 14. — If I have written nothing 
here for some days past, it is because I have had 
nothing interesting to say. 

Thus far, I have always been charitably disposed 
toward my fellow-beings; I have never spoken ill of 
others, nor repeated the evil I have heard spoken of 
them ; I have always defended any one who was slan- 
dered in my presence, no matter who it might be, in 
the selfish expectation that others would do as much 
for me in return ; I never seriously entertained the idea 
of injuring any one, and if I have desired fortune 
or power, it has not been from selfish motives, but 
rather with the purpose of performing such acts of 
generosity, of goodness, of charity, as it now aston- 
ishes me to think of — although in regard to this last 
particular, I have not been very successful; I shall 
always continue to give twenty sous to a beggar in the 
street, because such people bring tears to my eyes — 
but I really fear now that I am growing wicked. 

And yet it would be a noble thing to remain good, 
embittered and unhappy as I am. It would be amus- 
ing, however, to be wicked — to injure others, to speak 



514 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1879. 

evil of them — since it is all the same to God, and He 
takes cognizance of nothing. Besides, it is very evi- 
dent that God is not what we imagine Him to be. God 
is, perhaps, nature; and all the events of life are 
directed by chance, which sometimes brings about 
those strange coincidences and events that make us 
believe there is a Providence. As to our prayers to 
God, our communion with Him, our faith in Him, I 
have learned to my cost that there is nothing in them. 
To feel within one's-self the power to move heaven 
and earth and to be nothing! I do not proclaim this 
thought aloud, but the anguish of it may be read upon 
my countenance. People think such thoughts are of 
no consequence so long as one does not utter them 
aloud, but feelings like these always come to the sur- 
face. 

Wednesday, November 19. — Robert-Fleury came to 
see me this evening, and, besides the profit I derived 
from the good advice he gave me, we spent a pleasant 
evening together in my studio beside the samovar; he 
explained very clearly to me how it was necessary to 
arrange the light. Fleury neither receives pay nor has 
he any selfish interest in the matter; besides, he is a 
person whose words are to be relied upon, and he 
repeated to me this evening what he told Mme. Breslau 
— that her daughter and myself are the only pupils 
in the studio who have exceptional talent for drawing. 
The others are worth nothing. He passed them all in 
review, and I was amused to see how unceremoniously 
he treated their pretensions. 

In short, he has taken me completely under his wing. 
So to compensate him in some way for this, I have 
given him an order for a portrait of myself, small size, 
and this has already begun to detract from my pleasure 
in his society, on account of the expense. 



1879.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 215 

Saturday, November 21. — As I expressed a great 
deal of admiration to-day for a sketch he had made 
for the ceiling of the Luxembourg, he (Tony) of- 
fered it to me in the most amiable manner possible, 
saying it gave him pleasure to present it to one who 
knew as much about art as I did, and who could appre- 
ciate is so well. 

"But there must be a great many," I said, "who 
appreciate your painting." 

'No, no, it is not the same thing, it is not the same 
thing," he replied. 

I am already more at my ease with him, and am 
scarcely at all afraid of him now. After seeing him 
for two whole years at the studio, once or twice every 
week, it seems very odd to chat with him and have 
him help me on with my pelisse. A little more and 
we shall be good friends. If it were not for the por- 
trait, I should be well contented, for my master is as 
amiable with me as possible. 

Monday, November 23. — We went to-day to invite 
Julian to dine with us, but he made a thousand ex- 
cuses, saying that, if he accepted the invitation, it 
would take away all his authority over me, and that 
then there would be no means of getting on, particu- 
larly as the least mark of complaisance toward me on 
his part was regarded as favoritism. They would say 
I could do as I liked at the studio because he dined 
with us, because I was rich, etc. The good man is 
right. 

Tuesday, November 24. — The studio at No. 37 has 
been taken and is almost arranged. 

I spent the whole day there ; it is a very large room, 
with gray walls. I sent there two rather shabby 
Gobelins which conceal the side of the wall furthest 
from the entrance, a Persian carpet, some Chinese 



2l6 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1879. 

matting, a large square Algerian seat, a table for 
modeling, a number of pieces of stuff, and some sateen 
draperies, of a warm, undecided color. 

I also sent a number of casts — the Venus of Milo, 
the Venus of Medicis, and the Venus of Nimes; the 
Apollo, the Neapolitan Faun, an ecorche, some bas- 
reliefs, a portmanteau, an urn, a looking-glass that cost 
me four francs twenty-five centimes, a clock that cost 
thirty-two francs, a chair, a stove, an oak chest of 
drawers, of which the upper part serves as a color 
box, a tray with everything necessary to make tea, 
an inkstand and some pens, a pail, a jug, and a number 
of canvases, caricatures, studies, and sketches. 

To-morrow I shall unpack some drawings — but I 
fear that they will make my paintings appear still 
worse than they are — an arm and a leg, natural size, 
of an ecorche, a lay-figure, and a box of carpenter's 
tools ; the Antinoiis is still to be sent. 

Wednesday, December 31. — I think that I am going 
to be ill. I am so weak that I cry without any cause. 
On leaving the studio to-day I went to the Magasin du 
Louvre. It would take a Zola to describe this excited, 
busy, disgusting crowd, running, pushing, with heads 
thrust forward, and eager eyes. I felt ready to faint 
from heat and weakness. 

What a melancholy ending to the year! I think 
I shall go to bed at eleven and sleep while waiting 
for midnight — to have my fortune told, 



i88o.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 217 



l880. 

Thursday, January 1. — I went to the studio this 
morning; so that by working on the first day of the 
year I may work the whole year through. We made 
some visits afterward, and then went to the Bois. 

Saturday, January 3. — I cough continually! but for 
a wonder, far from making me look ugly, this gives 
me an air of languor that is very becoming. 

Monday, January 5. — Well, things are going badly. 

I have begun to work again, but as I did not take 
a complete rest, I feel a languor and a lack of strength 
such as I never felt before. And the Salon so near! 
I have talked it all over with Julian, and we are both 
agreed that I am not ready. 

Let me see: I have been working for two years 
and four months, without deducting time lost, or spent 
in traveling — little enough, yet after all it is a good 
deal. I have not worked hard enough, I have lost 
time; I have relaxed my efforts, I — in a word, I am 
not ready. "The constant pricking of a pin would 
drive one mad," Edmond has said, "but a blow from 
a club, provided it were not given in a vital part, might 
be courageously borne." It is true; the same eternal 
comparison — Breslau. She began in June, 1875, 
which gives her four years and a half, without de- 
ducting either time spent in travel or time lost from 
study, as in my case. She had been painting a little 
more than two years when she exhibited. I have been 
painting a year and four months, and I cannot exhibit 
with as much credit as she does. 

As far as I myself am concerned, this would not 
matter; I could wait. I am courageous; if I were 



2l8 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1880. 

told I had to wait a year, I could answer from my 
heart, "Very well." But the public, and my family — 
they would believe in me no longer. I might send a 
picture, but what Julian desires is that I should paint 
a portrait, and this I could do only indifferently well. 
See what it is to be of importance; there are pupils 
in the studio who have exhibited, who cannot paint a 
fifth as well as I, and no one has said anything about 
it. But when it is I who am in question — "Why do 
it?" they say. "You do not want to teach, nor to be 
paid fifty or a hundred francs for a picture ; what you 
want is fame. To exhibit such a thing as the others 
might very well do, would be unworthy of you." 

This is my own opinion, too; but the public and 
my family, and our friends and relations in Russia, 
what will they say? 

Saturday, January 17. — The doctor would have me 
believe that my cough is a purely nervous one, and it 
may be so, for I have not taken cold ; neither my throat 
nor my chest hurts me. I simply experience a diffi- 
culty in breathing, and I feel a pain in the right side. 
Be that as it may, I came home at eleven, and, all the 
time wishing that I might fall suddenly ill so as not 
to have to go to the ball, dressed myself for it. I 
looked beautiful. 

Tuesday, January 20. — When I came home from 

the studio to-day I found that Mme. G had been 

here, expecting to find me in my room, and that she 
was furious because I do not take care of myself just 
as if I were an old woman. And then, the tickets we 
were promised for to-morrow have been given to 
Mme. de Rothschild. 

Oh, not to have to ask for tickets! To be inde- 
pendent ! 



i88o.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 219 

Saturday, January 31. — I went to-night to a concert 
and ball, given for the benefit of the sufferers by the 
inundations in Murcia, at the Continental Hotel, under 
the patronage of Queen Isabella, who, after listening 
to the concert, descended to the ball-room, where she 
remained an hour. 

I am not very fond of dancing, and to whirl around 
in the arms of a man does not seem to me to be very 
amusing. On the whole, though, it is a matter of 
indifference to me, for I could never understand the 
feeling of the Italians with respect to the waltz. 

When I dance I think of nothing but the persons 
who are observing me. 

I should like to do every day as I have done to-day : 
to work from eight until noon; and from two until 
five; at five to have the lamp brought in and draw 
till half -past seven. 

At half-past seven to dress; to dine at eight, read 
until eleven, and then go to bed. 

To work from two till half-past seven, however, 
without stopping, is a little fatiguing. 

For this year's Salon I have thought of this: A 
woman seated at a table reading, her elbow resting 
on the table, and her chin in the palm of her hand, 
while the light falls on her beautiful blonde hair. 
Title — The Divorce Question, by Dumas. This book 
has just appeared, and the subject is one that is 
agitating the whole world. The other picture is simply 
Dina in a white crepe-de-chine, seated in a large 
antique easy-chair, her hands in her lap, and her 
fingers loosely interlaced. The attitude is so easy and 
graceful that I hastened to make a sketch of her one 
evening she had seated herself thus by chance, while 
I was trying to pose her. It is somewhat in the style 
of Mme. Recamier, and in order that the waist may 
not look too immodest I shall add a colored sash. 

To-day, I float in air, I feel myself a superior 



220 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1880. 

being, — great, happy, capable of all things. I have 
faith in my future. 

Monday, February 16. — We went to the Theatre 
Frangais to-night to see the first representation of 
"Daniel Rochat," by Sardou. It was a really im- 
portant event. We had an excellent box containing 
six seats. There was a splendid house; every one 
of any importance, socially or politically, being there. 

As to the play itself I must see it again. I thought 
it in some parts diffuse and tiresome; but the audi- 
ence shouted, applauded, and hissed so much, some 
approving, others condemning, that I could scarcely 
hear half of the piece. The hero is a great orator, — 
a sort of atheistic Gambetta. The heroine is a young 
girl, — an Anglo-American Protestant, extremely lib- 
eral in her views, and a republican, but a believer. 

You can imagine what might be made out of such 
material at the present time. 

Wednesday, March 3. — I must give up going out 
in the evening for the present, so that I may be able 
to rise refreshed in the morning and begin my work 
at eight o'clock. 

I have only sixteen days left in which to complete 
my picture. 

Friday, March 12. — If mamma goes away to-mor- 
row, Dina will accompany her; there are only seven 
days left now, and I shall never be able to find a 
model; even if I succeed in finding one to-morrow, 
there will be only six days, then, and it would be 
impossible to finish my picture in that time. I must 
therefore give up the hope of exhibiting this year, 
and I will not conceal from you the fact that I have 
shed tears of rage, not only on account of that, but 
also at the thought that nothing succeeds with me. I 



i88o.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 221 

conceive an idea for a picture — a sensational subject 
that would produce an effect, whatever shortcomings 
there might be in the execution, and give me in a 
day the reputation I could scarcely hope to acquire 
otherwise in a year — and now there is an end to 
everything. The labor of so many days is lost, and 
lost without hope of a return. This is what may be 
called a misfortune. Think of me as you will, but 
while Paul's romantic sorrows left me unmoved, this 
sorrow of my own exasperates me and plunges me 
into despair. Yet there is something more in this 
feeling than selfishness, though what it is I cannot 
explain. And even if there were nothing in it but 
selfishness, I am unhappy enough, and forlorn enough, 
to excuse my being selfish. 

Friday, March 19. — At a quarter-past twelve Tony 
arrived. Why had I not begun sooner? he asked; 
the picture was charming, enchanting, he declared: 
what a pity it was that it was not finished ! On the 
whole, he consoled me, but he said that I must ask 
for more time. 

"You might send it as it is," he added, "but it would 
not be worthy of you; this is my sincere opinion; 
ask for more time, and you will produce something 
really good." 

Then he turned up his sleeves, took the palette and 
brush, and dashed in a stroke here and there to show 
where more light was wanted. But I will retouch 
it all — if they grant me the time. He stayed more 
than two hours. He is a charming fellow; he enter- 
tained me greatly, and I was in such good-humor 
that it mattered little to me what became of the pic- 
ture. Those dashes of the brush were in fact an 
excellent lesson. 

I had already recovered my spirits even before I 
knew the result of mamma's efforts with Gavini, who 



222 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1880. 

had written to Turquet. Well, I am to receive my 
six days' grace. I do not know precisely whom to 
thank for this, but we went to the opera with the 
Gavinis to-night, and I thanked the elder Gavini. It 
is to him, I think, that I owe it. I was radiant, 
triumphant, happy. 

Monday, March 22. — Tony is surprised to see how 
much I have accomplished in so short a time. All 
the same, with the exception of the background, the 
hair, and the flesh, the painting has a muddy look. 
There is no freshness about it. I might have done 
better. This is Tony's opinion also ; he is satisfied 
with it, however, and says that, if there were any 
possibility of its being refused at the Salon, he would 
be the first to tell me not to send it. He says he is 
surprised to see how much I have accomplished. "It 
is well conceived, well composed, and well executed; 
it is full of harmony, of charm, of grace." 

Ah, yes, but I am dissatisfied with the flesh. And 
to think they will say this is my manner! It is like 
parchment! I shall be obliged to have recourse to 
glaze ! I who adore freshness and simplicity in paint- 
ing, who have always made it my aim to secure the 
effect at the first stroke! I can tell you that it costs 
me not a little to exhibit a thing the execution of 
which falls so short of what I should like it to be — 
a thing so different from my ordinary work. It is 
true that I have never done anything that has alto- 
gether pleased me, but this is muddy, it is a daub. 
Tony says that Breslau shows the influence of 
Bastien-Lepage in her painting this year. She shows 
his influence as I show hers. 

Tony is as good as he can be. And to say that I 
might have done better! Miserable self -depreciation; 
miserable want of self-confidence ! If I had not be- 
gun to hesitate and to say to myself, "To be, or not 



i88o.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 22$ 

to be!" — but let me not commit the folly of grieving 
for a thing that is past. 

I cannot tell why my mind should dwell on Italy 
to-night. This is a subject that awakens torturing 
thoughts within me, and one that I seek to avoid think- 
ing of as far as possible. I have given up reading 
Roman history; it excited my imagination too much, 
and I have fallen back on the French Revolution 
and the history of Greece. But when I think of the 
Italian sunshine, the Italian air, — when I think of 
Rome, I grow desperate! 

Even Naples — Ah, Naples by moonlight! And 
what is curious is that there is no man in the case. 
When I think that I might go there if I chose, I am 
almost mad. 

Thursday, March 25. — I have given the final touches 
to my picture: there is nothing now to be done to it, 
unless to do it all over again. It is finished, as far 
as so wretched a thing can be finished. 

This is my debut; my first independent public act. 
At last it is accomplished; my number is 9091, "Made- 
moiselle Marie-Constantin Rus." I hope it will be 
accepted ; I will send the number to Tony. 

Wednesday, April 7. — I must not forget to say that 
Julian announced to me this morning that my picture 
has been accepted. Curiously enough, I experienced 
no feeling of satisfaction at the news. Mamma's de- 
light irritates me; this kind of a success is unworthy 
of me. 

We spent the evening at Mme. P 's, — amiable 

people, but surrounded by a curious set; the dresses 
were of another century; no one of any note was 
there: I was sleepy and cross. And poor mamma 
left her seat to present to me the Mexican, or the 
Chilian, "who laughs." He makes frightful grimaces 



224 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1880. 

which give him a habitually sneering expression. It 
is a nervous affection, and along with it he has a 
round, smooth face! He has twenty-seven millions, 
and mamma has taken it into her head that I might 
marry this man — it would be almost as if I were to 
marry a man without a nose! Horrible! I might 
marry an old man, an ugly man — they are all alike 
to me — but a monster, never! Of what use would 
his millions be to me with this laughing-stock at- 
tached to them. There were several people there 
we knew, but it was enough to put one to sleep — 
amateurs who made faces and showed their teeth 
while they sang, a violinist who could not be heard, 
and a handsome man who, after sweeping his audi- 
ence with a triumphant glance, gave us Schubert's 
"Serenade," with his hand resting on the piano. But 
for that matter I cannot understand how a gentleman 
can thus make an exhibition of himself in public. 

The women, their heads dressed with that white 
powder that gives the hair so dirty an appearance, 
looked as if they had just been stuffing mattresses or 
threshing straw. How foolish, how disgusting a prac- 
tice it is ! 

Thursday, April 29. — We dine with the Simonides 
this evening. Everything about their menage is 
curious (I made the acquaintance of the wife at 
Julian's) ; the husband is young and handsome, the 
wife is past her thirty-fifth year, though still beauti- 
ful ; they are very much attached to each other. They 
live in retirement, seeing no one with the exception 
of a few artists, and produce the most extraordinary 
drawings and paintings, something after the style of 
the Renaissance, and on subjects surprising by their 
naivete! "The Death of Beatrice, ,, "The Death of 
Laura" (the woman who concealed her lover's head 
in a flower-pot, from which flowers sprouted after- 



i88o.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 225 

ward), and all in the manner of centuries ago. 
Madame wears costumes of the time of Boccaccio; 
to-night she wore a soft Japanese crepe, with long, 
narrow sleeves, such as the Virgin is represented 
wearing, fastened behind, and a plain skirt hanging 
in straight folds; a girdle of antique galloon, which 
made her look rather short-waisted ; a bouquet of lilies 
of the valley in the corsage, pearls around her neck, 
and earrings and bracelets of gold of antique work- 
manship. With her pale complexion, her black wavy 
hair, and her gazelle-like eyes, she looked like a 
fantastic apparition. If she only had the sense to 
dress her hair simply, instead of tumbling it up and 
making her head look like a fright, she would be very 
striking. 

Friday, April 30. — My little American friend, whose 
name is Alice Brisbane, came at ten, and we left the 
house together. I had set my mind on going alone 
or with but a single companion to see how my picture 
was hung. I went to the Salon, then, very nervous, 
and imagining the worst that could possibly happen, 
so that I might not be disappointed. None of my 
forebodings were realized, however, for my picture 
was not yet hung. 

As for Bastien-Lepage, his picture produces on the 
beholder, at the first glance, the effect of space — of 
the open air. Jeanne d'Arc — the real Jeanne d'Arc, 
the peasant girl — leans against an apple-tree, of which 
she holds a branch in her left hand, which, as well 
as the arm, is of extreme perfection; the right arm 
hangs loosely by her side; it is admirable — the head 
thrown back, the strained attitude of the neck, and 
the eyes that look into the future — clear, wonderful 
eyes; the countenance produces a striking effect; it 
is that of the peasant, the daughter of the soil, startled 
and pained by her vision. The orchard surrounding 



226 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1880. 

the house in the background is nature's self; but 
there is a something — in a word, the perspective of 
it is not good; it seems to crowd forward on the 
view, and spoils the effect of the figure. 

The figure itself is sublime, and it produced on me 
so strong an impression that I can scarcely restrain 
my tears as I write. 

This was what most interested me in the Salon. 
Now for myself: We were all going to visit the 
Salon together, after breakfast, or at least so I 
thought. . . . But no ; my aunt went to church, in- 
stead, and mamma wanted to go too, and it was only 
when they saw that I was astonished and offended, 
that they decided to accompany me, and then with a 
very bad grace. I do not know if it was the modest 
place I occupied that displeased them, and made them 
unwilling to go, but it is really very hard to have 
such a family! Finally, ashamed of her indifference, 
or whatever else it may have been, mamma went 
with me, and Dina also, and we met at the Salon, first, 
the whole studio, then some acquaintances, and finally 
Julian. 

Saturday, May 1. — One of the most stupid, un- 
looked for, and annoying things imaginable has just 
happened to me! To-morrow is Easter Sunday, and 
we were to go to-night to high mass, at which the 
whole Russian colony, beginning with the embassy, 
was to be assembled — all the beauty and elegance and 
vanity of the colony in the front seats. The Russian 
women and their gowns were of course to be passed 
in review and commented upon by everybody. 

Well, at the last moment they brought me my 
gown, and it looked like nothing but a heap of old 
gauze. I went, however, but no one shall ever know 
the secret rage I felt. My waist was hidden by a 
badly made corsage, all askew ; my arms were cramped 



i88o.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 227 

by ill-fitting sleeves, much too long; altogether I pre- 
sented a ridiculous appearance, and, in addition to 
all this, the gauze, that I had seen only by daylight, 
looked positively dirty at night. 

Friday, May 7. — Mme. Gavini came again to-day to 
tell mamma that I am wearing myself out; that is 
true, but it is not with painting; to avoid wearing 
myself out it would be only necessary for me to go 
to bed every night at ten or eleven o'clock, while, 
as it is, I stay up till one, and waken in the morning 
at seven. 

Last night it was that idiot S who was the 

cause of this. I was writing and he came over to 
speak to me; then he went to play cards with my 
aunt; then I waited up in order to hear a few silly 
words of love from him. And twenty times he bade 
me good-night, and twenty times I told him to go, 
and twenty times he asked permission to kiss my 
hand; and I laughed and said at last, "Very well, it 
is all the same to me." Then he kissed my hand, 
and I am sorry to have to confess that this kiss gave 
me pleasure, not because of the person who bestowed 
it, but — for many reasons. And after all, one is only 
a woman. 

I could still feel this kiss upon my hand this morn- 
ing, for it was not a kiss bestowed simply through 
politeness. 

Ah, what creatures young girls are ! 

Do you suppose I am in love with this young man 
with the long nose? No, you do not? Well, the 

A affair was nothing more than this. I had been 

doing my best to fall in love, and the Cardinals and 
the Pope lent their assistance; my imagination was 
excited; but as for love — oh, no! Only as I am not 
now fifteen, and, besides, am not as silly as I was 



228 JOURNAL OP MARIE BASHKIRTSEFf. [1880. 

then, I exaggerate nothing, and relate the occurrence 
just as it took place. 

The kiss upon my hand troubled me especially be- 
cause I saw that it had given me pleasure. Con- 
sequently, I have resolved to treat S with cold- 
ness in the future, but he is such a good fellow, and 
so simple-minded, that it would be stupid of me to 
act a part; it would not be worth while; it is better 

to treat him as I did Alexis B , which is what I 

do. Dina, he, and I remained together to-night till 
eleven o'clock, S and I reading verses and mak- 
ing translations from the Latin, and Dina listening. 
I was surprised to see that this young fellow knows 
a great deal, — at least a great deal more than I. I 
have forgotten a good deal of what I knew, and he is 
just fresh from his studies for his degree of bachelor 
of arts. Well, I should like to make a friend of him 
— but, no, he does not please me well enough for that, 
but — a friendly acquaintance. 

Saturday, May 8. — When I am spoken to, even in 
a loud tone of voice, I cannot hear! Tony asked me 
to-day if I had seen anything of Perugino, and I 
answered "No," without understanding what he said. 

Thursday, May 13. — I have such a buzzing in my 
ears that I have to make the greatest effort to prevent 
the distress it causes me from being perceived. 

Oh, it is horrible! With S it is not so much 

matter, because he sits near me, and whenever I wish 

I can tell him that he bores me. But the G s 

raise their voices when they speak to me; and at the 
studio they laugh at me, and tell me I am growing 
deaf. I pretend that it is only absent-mindedness, 
and make a jest of it, but it is horrible! 

Sunday, May 16. — I went to the Salon alone early 



i88o.l JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 229 

this morning; only those who had cards of admission 
were there. I looked for a long time at the Jeanne 
d'Arc, and still longer at the "Good Samaritan" of 
Morot. I seated myself in front of the Morot, with 
a lorgnette in my hand, so as to study it carefully. 
It is the picture that, of all I have ever seen, has 
given me the greatest pleasure. There is nothing 
cramped in it; all is simple, true, natural; every ob- 
ject in it is copied from nature, and there is nothing 
that recalls the hideous conventional beauty of the 
school. It is charming to look at; even the head of 
the ass is perfect ; the landscape, the mantle, the very 
toe-nails. Everything is harmonious, everything is 
correct, everything is as it should be. 

The head of the Jeanne d'Arc is sublime. These 
two paintings are in two adjoining rooms. I went 
back and forth from the one to the other. I was 
looking through my lorgnette at the Morot and think- 
ing of that poor fellow S , when he passed in 

front of me, without seeing me, however, and when 
I was going away I again saw him from the garden 
pointing out my picture to another person who looked 
like a journalist. 

Friday, June 18. — I have worked all day to-day at 
my painting. In the evening S came. I at- 
tributed his evident depression to his being in love, 
but there was something more than this the matter. 
He goes to Bucharest or to Lille as director of his 
brother's bank. But, besides this, and above all, he 
desired to get married; ah, his heart is set upon it! 
As for me, I smiled and told him he was bold and 
presumptuous, and explained to him that I had no 
dowry, as all my dowry would be no more than 
enough for pin-money, and that he would have to 
lodge me and feed me, and provide me with amuse- 
ment at his own cost. 



230 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF [1880, 

Poor fellow, I felt sorry for him all the same. 

He kissed my hands a hundred times, entreating 
me to think of him sometimes. "You will think of 
me sometimes ? Speak, I entreat you ; tell me you will 
sometimes think of me," he said. 

"Whenever I find time." 

But he begged so hard that I was obliged at last 
to give him a hasty yes. Ah, our adieus were tragic 
— at least on his side. We were standing near the 
door of the drawing-room, and I gave him my hand 
to kiss, so that he might carry away with him a 
romantic recollection of our parting, and then we 
gravely shook hands. 

I remained pensive for a full minute after he had 
gone. I shall miss this boy. He is to write to me. 

Sunday, June 20. — I spent the morning at the 
Salon, which closes this evening. The "Good Samari- 
tan" has received the medal of honor. 

The landscape of Bastien-Lepage is not perfect, it 
spoils the figure, but what an admirable figure ! The 
head is a piece of art that stands absolutely unrivaled. 
I found Morot's picture almost tiresome to-day, while 
Bastien-Lepage I admired more than ever. I went 
from the one to the other, and then to a "Sleeping 
Head," of Henner, and a little nymph by him also. 
Henner is grace itself. It is not altogether nature, 
but — but no, it must be nature; it is adorable. His 
"Nymphs by Twilight" is incomparable and inimitable. 
He never varies, but is always charming. His nude 
figures at the Luxembourg are not so good as his 
later work. His last year's picture is the best of his 
work that I have seen. I longed passionately to 
buy it. I look at it every day. Ah, if I were only 
rich! The effect the Morot produces on me is a 
singular one. I find him tiresome beside Bastien- 



i88o.J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 231 

Lepage and Henner. Henner! — his charm is inex- 
pressible ! 

Mont-Dore, Tuesday, July 20. — I went to Julian's 
yesterday with Villevielle, to get my keys, which I 
had forgotten. This man encourages me greatly, and 
I leave Paris in good spirits. One consolation is that 
I am no longer afraid of Breslau. "The thing with 
her" (meaning me), Julian says, "is that it is not 
painting, but the object itself; and even when she does 
not quite reach it, you can see that the effort has 
been in that direction." 

We are badly lodged, the house is full, and the 
cooking atrocious. 

Wednesday, July 21. — I have begun a course of 
treatment. They come for me with an air-tight sedan- 
chair, and a costume of white flannel trousers reach- 
ing to the feet, and a cloak with a hood. 

Then follow a bath, a douche, drinking the waters, 
and inhalations. I agree to everything. This is the 
last time I shall submit to all these things, and I 
should not do so now, if it were not for the fear of 
growing deaf. My deafness is much better; almost 
well, in fact. 

Friday, July 23. — Who will restore me my youth — 
my squandered, stolen, vanished youth! I am not 
yet twenty, and the other day I pulled out three gray 
hairs. I am proud of them; they are the terrible 
proof that I have exaggerated nothing. If it were 
not for my childish figure I should look like an old 
woman. Is this natural at my age ? 

I had a wonderful voice; it was a gift from God, 
and I have lost it. Song for a woman is what elo- 
quence is for a man — a power without limit. 

In the park which my window overlooks I saw 



232 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1880. 

Mme. Rothschild to-day, with her horses, her grooms, 
etc. The sight of this fortunate woman gave me 
pain; but I must be brave. Besides, when suffering 
becomes too severe there comes deliverance from it. 
When it reaches a certain point then we know it 
must begin to diminish ; it is while awaiting this crisis 
of the heart and soul that we suffer ; when it has once 
come, then our sufferings begin to admit of consola- 
tion — then one can call Epictetus to one's aid, or one 
can pray; but there is this about prayer: it stirs the 
emotions. 

Tuesday, July 27. — I tried to paint a landscape to- 
day, but it ended in my flinging away the canvas; 
there was a little girl of about four years old stand- 
ing beside me watching me while I painted, and in- 
stead of looking at my landscape I looked at the 
child, who is to sit for me to-morrow. How can any 
other subject be preferred to the human form? 

I have such a pain running from the right ear 
down the neck that it almost drives me crazy. I have 
said nothing about it — it would only trouble my aunt ; 
and then I know it is caused by my sore throat. 

Here I have been for the last twenty- four hours 
suffering tortures. I find it impossible to sleep, or 
to do anything else whatever. Even my reading I 
have to leave off at every moment. I think it is this 
pain that makes everything look black around me. 
Misery of miseries! 

Saturday, July 31. — Before I left Paris I read 
"Indiana," by Georges Sand, and I can assure you 
I did not find it amusing. As I have only read "La 
Petite Fadette," "Indiana," and two or three other 
novels of hers, perhaps I ought not to express an 
opinion on the subject; but so far I do not enjoy this 
author at all. 



1880.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 233 

I thought of taking a ride to-day, but I have no 
mind for anything, and when I spend the day without 
working I suffer the most frightful remorse, and 
there are days when I can do nothing; on such occa- 
sions I say to myself that I could work if I tried, and 
then follow self-reproaches, and it ends by my ex- 
claiming, "Better give it all up! Life is not worth 
the trouble I" And then I sit down and smoke cigar- 
ettes and read novels. 

Tuesday, August 17. — I have never had the per- 
severance to finish any piece of writing. Something 
of interest takes place; it occurs to me to write an 
article about it; I sketch this out, and on the follow- 
ing day I see in one of the papers an article resem- 
bling mine, or at least one that renders mine useless. 
My studies in art have taught me that in order to 
succeed in anything persistent effort in the beginning 
is indispensable. "The first step is the most difficult 
one." This proverb never struck me so forcibly as 
now. 

And then there is a question also, and above all, 
of environment. Mine may be characterized, not- 
withstanding the best will in the world, as stultifying. 
The members of my family are, for the most part, 
ignorant and commonplace. Then there is Mme. 

G , who is a worldly woman, par excellence; and 

you know who our habitues are. M and some 

insignificant young people. So that I can assure you 
if it were not for my own companionship, and my 
reading, I should be even less intelligent than I am. 

Wednesday, August 18. — We took a long ride to- 
day, — five hours on horseback, and with this debili- 
tating treatment, and I am literally tired to death. 

I fear the result of the treatment will prove this 
stupid doctor here, who pretended that I was weak, 



234 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1880. 

to be in the right. It is true that he assured me, 
when I had got through with it, that in order to 
have borne twenty-one baths as well as I did, I must 
have been very strong. Medicine is a sorry science. 
We ascended to the summit of Sancy. The moun- 
tains that frame in the horrible Mont-Dore, seen 
from this height, appear flat. The spectacle from the 
top of Sancy is truly sublime; I should love to see 
the sun rise from there. The far horizon has a 
bluish tint that reminded me of the Mediterranean, 
and that is all there is that is beautiful about the 
place. The ascent on foot is very fatiguing, but 
when one has reached the top one seems to dominate 
the world. 

Thursday, August 19. — I am good for nothing this 
morning; my eyes are tired, my head aches. And 
to think I shall not leave here till Saturday ! To-day 
it is too late, to-morrow is Friday, and if I were to 
travel on Friday, I should think all the stupid things 
that invariably happen to me on such occasions hap- 
pened on that account. 

Paris, Sunday, August 29, eight o'clock. — How 
comfortable and pretty my studio looks! 

I have been reading the illustrated weekly papers, 
and some pamphlets. Everything goes on in the same 
routine as before, just as if I had not been away. 

Two o'clock. — I console myself by thinking that my 
troubles are only the equivalent of the troubles of 
other kinds that other artists have to suffer, as I 
have neither poverty nor the tyranny of parents to 
bear — for it is those, is it not, that artists have chiefly 
to complain of? 

I make some good resolution, and then on a sudden 
I commit some folly, as if I were acting in a dream! 
I despise and detest myself, as I despise and detest 



i88o.J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 235 

every one else, including the members of my own 
family. Oh, one's family! My aunt employed a 
dozen little stratagems on the journey to make me 
sit on the side of the car on which the window did 
not open. Tired of resisting I at last consented, on 
condition that the window on the other side should 
be opened; and no sooner had I fallen asleep than 
they closed it again. I woke up exclaiming that I 
would break open the window with my heels, but we 
had already arrived. And then at breakfast, after- 
ward, such frowns, such looks of anguish, because 
I did not eat. Evidently these people love me, but 
it seems to me that when people love one they should 
be able to understand one better. 

Just indignation renders one eloquent. 

And then — mamma is always talking about God: 
"If God wills it" ; "With the help of God." When 
one invokes the name of God so often it is only as 
an excuse for leaving a number of petty duties 
undone. 

This is not faith, nor even religion; it is a mania, 
a vice, the cowardliness of laziness, of incapacity, of 
indolence. What can be more unworthy than to seek 
to cover all one's shortcomings by the word "God." 
It is not only unworthy, it is criminal, if one believes 
in God. "If it is written that such a thing is to 
happen, it will happen," she says, so as to avoid the 
trouble of exerting herself, and — remorse. 

If everything were ordered beforehand, God would 
be nothing more than a constitutional president, and 
free will, vice, and virtue idle words. 

Tuesday, September 7. — It is raining; all the most 
disagreeable events of my life pass in review before 
me, and there are some of them, far back in the past, 
that to think of makes me start in my chair and 



236 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1880. 

clinch my hands as if a physical pain had suddenly 
seized me. 

In order that I should grow better, it would be 
necessary for me to change all my surroundings; I 
know beforehand all that mamma or my aunt will 
say or do in such or such circumstances, what they 
will wear receiving visitors, when they go out to take 
an airing, when they are in the country — and all this 
irritates me frightfully; it produces the same effect 
upon me as it would to listen to the cutting of glass. 

It would be necessary for me to change my sur- 
roundings completely, and then, when my spirit was 
more tranquil, I should no doubt love them as they 
deserve to be loved. Meantime, however, they worry 
me to death. When I refuse any dish at table they 
wear the most frightful looks, they employ every de- 
vice to avoid the use of ice at table, as they fancy 
it might hurt me. When I open a window they steal 
to it like thieves to close it again; and do a thousand 
other silly things of the kind that irritate my nerves. 
But I am possessed with a hatred for everything 
belonging to this house. What gives me most un- 
easiness is that my faculties are rusting in this soli- 
tude; all these somber colors tinge my thoughts with 
gloom and throw my mind back upon itself. I fear 
that these dark surroundings may leave a lasting 
impression upon my character, and render it sour, 
morose, and embittered. I have no wish that this 
should be so, but I fear that it will be the case, owing 
to the efforts that I am compelled to make to prevent 
the rage with which they are continually inspiring 
me, from appearing on the surface. 

Friday, September 10. — A profound emotion for 
my aunt to-day! Dr. Fauvel, who examined my 
lungs a week ago and found nothing the matter with 
them then, examined them again to-day and discov- 



i88o.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 237 

ered that the bronchial tubes are affected. He seemed 
serious, moved, and somewhat confused at not having 
foreseen the gravity of the disease; then followed 
prescriptions for the remedies used by consumptives 
— cod-liver oil, painting the chest with iodine, hot 
milk, flannel underwear, etc., and finally he advised 
me to consult Dr. See or Dr. Potain, or to call them 
in in consultation with him. You may imagine the 
expression in my aunt's countenance! For my part 
all this amuses me; I have suspected something of 
the kind for a long time past; I have been coughing 
all the winter, and I cough still, and experience diffi- 
culty in breathing besides. The wonder would be if 
nothing were the matter with me; I should be well 
pleased if something were the matter, so as to be 
done with it. My aunt is terrified ; I, delighted. The 
thought of death does not frighten me. I should not 
dare to kill myself, but I should like to be done with 
life. If you but knew — I shall wear no flannel and 
I will not stain my chest with iodine. I have no 
desire to get well. I shall have life enough and health 
enough without that for all I want to do. 

Friday, September 17. — I went again yesterday to 
see the doctor who was treating me for my deafness. 
He confessed to me that he had not thought the trouble 
so serious, and told me that I shall never again be 
able to hear as well as formerly. I was completely 
overwhelmed by his words. It is horrible ! I am not 
deaf, it is true, but my ear perceives sound only 
through a mist, as it were. For instance, I can no 
longer hear, and perhaps shall never be able to hear 
again, the tick-tick of my alarm clock, unless by put- 
ting my ear close to it. This, indeed, may be called 
a misfortune. In conversation many things escape me. 
Well, let me thank Heaven, that I have not also be- 
came blind or dumb. 



2$2> JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1880. 

Tuesday, September 28. — Since last night I have 
been happy. I dreamed of him. He was ill, and he 
looked ugly, but that did not matter ; I know now that 
love is not dependent for its existence on the posses- 
sion of beauty by the beloved object. We talked to- 
gether like two friends as we used to do, as we would 
do now if we were to meet again. All I asked for 
was that our friendship might not transgress the 
limits beyond which it would become subject to 
change. 

This was the dream I cherished in my waking hours, 
also. In a word, I have never been so happy as I was 
last night. 

Wednesday, September 29. — Since yesterday my 
complexion has been wonderfully fresh and clear and 
beautiful, and my eyes brilliant and animated. Even 
the contour of my face is more delicate and more 
perfect than before. Only it is a pity that this is at a 
time when there is no one to see me. It is a silly 
thing to say, but I remained standing for half-an-hour 
before the glass for the pleasure of looking at myself ; 
it is a long time since this has happened. 

Friday, October 1. — Oh, Frenchmen who complain 
that you are neither free nor happy ! The same state 
of things exists now in Russia as existed in France 
during the Reign of Terror — by a word, a gesture, one 
may bring ruin on one's-self. Ah, how much there 
still remains to be done that men might be even ap- 
proximately happy ! 

Sunday, October 3. — I am very sad to-day. 

No, there is no help for me. For four years I have 
been treated by the most celebrated doctors for laryn- 
gitis, and my health has been going from bad to worse 
during all that time. 



1880.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 239 

For the last four days I was able to hear well ; now, 
however, the deafness is beginning again. 

Well, I will make a prediction: 

I am going to die, but not just yet — that would be 
too much good fortune — that would be to end my suf- 
ferings at once. I shall go on dragging out a miserable 
existence for a few years longer with my cough, my 
colds, fevers, and other ailments. 

Monday, October 4. — I wrote to my music-teacher 
at Naples, a short time since, for some music for the 
mandolin. I have just received his answer. I con- 
fess, notwithstanding my realistic tendencies (a word 
very little understood) and my republican sentiments, 
I am very sensible to the charm of the flowery style 
of these Italians. 

And why should not the two things go together? 

But this style must be left to the Italians ; in others 
it appears ridiculous. Ah, when shall I be able to go 
to Italy? 

How tame every other place is after Italy? Never 
has any other country, never has any one's presence 
produced in me so strong an emotion as the mere 
recollection of Italy now awakens within me. 

Why should I not return there? And my painting? 
Do I know enough to go on in the right direction 
without further instruction? I cannot say. 

No, I will remain in Paris this winter. I will go to 
spend the Carnival in Italy. The winter of 1881-1882 
I will spend in St. Petersburg. If I do not marry a 
rich man then, I shall return to Paris or to Italy in 
1882 or 1883. And then I will marry a nobleman with 
fifteen or twenty thousand francs a year, who will 
be very glad to accept my income and myself. Am I 
not wise to allow myself three years of liberty before 
capitulating ? 



240 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. I1880. 

Tuesday, October 5. — There is nothing left me to 
do but to resign myself to the inevitable ; or rather to 
summon all my courage, and, standing face to face 
with myself, ask myself if this be not, after all, a 
matter of indifference. To have lived in one manner 
or in another, what does it matter? I must learn to 
conquer my sensations, and to say with Epictetus that 
it is in one's own power to accept evil as a good, or 
rather to accept with indifference whatever happens. 
One must have suffered horribly to be reconciled to 
this species of death as a way out of life, and it is 
only after one has endured indescribable sufferings, 
after one has sunk into a state of complete despair, 
that one begins to comprehend how it is possible to 
lead this living death. And yet, if one were to make 
the effort one might learn to accept one's fate with 
calmness at least. This is not a vain delusion; it i9 
something possible. 

When one has reached a certain point in physical 
suffering one loses consciousness, or else falls into a 
state of ecstasy. The same thing takes place in the 
case of mental suffering. When it has reached a cer- 
tain point the soul soars superior to it, one regards 
as insignificant one's former sufferings, and goes for- 
ward to one's fate with head erect, as the martyrs did 
of old. 

For the fifty years or so I may still have to live, of 
what consequence would it be whether they were 
passed in a prison or in a palace, among people or in 
solitude? The end would be the same. What I am 
troubled about, then, is the sensations experienced dur- 
ing thjs period, and which, when they have passed, 
leave no trace behind ? But what does a thing matter 
which is of short duration, and which, when it is past, 
leaves no trace of its existence? What it concerns 
me to do, since I have the power, is to utilize my life 



i88o.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 241 

in the pursuit of art — this may give evidence of my 
existence after I am dead. 

Saturday, October 9. — I have done nothing this 
week, and inaction has made me stupid. I glanced 
through the account of my journey to Russia, and it 
interested me very much. 

Georges Sands is a writer with whom I have no 
sympathy; and she does not even possess, in the same 
degree as Gautier, the vigor, the audacity, that inspire 
one with admiration, if not with liking, for him. 
Georges Sand — well, she is well enough. Among con- 
temporary writers I like Daudet best. His works, it 
is true, are only novels, but they are full of just 
observations, of truth to nature, of genuine feeling; 
his characters live. 

As for Zola, I am not on very good terms with 
him. He has thought fit to attack, in Figaro, Ranc, 
and others of the Republican party, with a virulence 
that is both in bad taste and unbecoming alike to his 
great genius and his high literary position. 

But what do people see in the writings of Georges 
Sand? Novels beautifully written, yes; but what 
more? As for me, I find her novels tiresome, which 
is never the case with Balzac, the two Dumas, Zola, 
Daudet, or Musset. Victor Hugo, in his most wildly 
romantic prose-writing, is never tiresome; one feels 
the spell of his genius. But Georges Sand! How 
can any one have the patience to read three hundred 
pages filled with the sayings and doings of Valentine 
and Benedict, the uncle, a gardener and so on. Her 
theme is always the same : the equalizing of classes by 
means of love — which is an ignoble one. 

Let social distinctions be abolished — well and good ; 
but let it be done by a more dignified means than this. 

To present the picture of a countess in love with 
her valet, and to write long dissertations on the sub- 



242 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1880. 

ject — in this does the genius of Georges Sand consist. 
She has written some good novels, it is true, contain- 
ing some very pretty descriptions of country life ; but 
I require in a writer something more than this. 

I am reading "Valentine" at present, and the book 
irritates me, because, while it is interesting enough to 
make me wish to finish it, every time I lay it down I 
find that it has left nothing in my mind but a vaguely 
disagreeable impression. I feel as if I lowered myself 
by this kind of reading; I dislike the book, and yet 
I go on reading it and shall go on with it to the end, 
unless it should prove as tiresome as the "Dernier 
Amour," of the same author. "Valentine," however, 
is the best of Georges Sand's novels that I have read ; 
the "Marquis de Villemer," too, is good. I believe 
there is no groom in love with a countess in it. 

Sunday, October 10. — I spent the morning at the 
Louvre, and was dazzled by what I saw there. I see 
now that I never had a clear understanding of art 
before; I looked, and admired in set phrases like the 
great majority of people. Ah, when one can feel and 
comprehend art as I do now, one has no ordinary soul. 
To feel that a thing is beautiful, and understand why 
it is beautiful — this is a great happiness. 

Monday, October 11. — I set to work on my picture 
to-day, full of yesterday's excitement. It is impossible 
not to achieve success when one has had revelations 
such as I had yesterday. 

Tuesday, October 19. — Alas! All this will end, 
after dragging out a few more years of miserable 
existence, in death. 

I have always felt that it must end in this way. 
One could not live long with a brain like mine. I am 



i88o.J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 243 

like those too precocious children who are doomed to 
an early death. 

I required too many things for my happiness, and 
circumstances were such that I was deprived of every- 
thing, even physical well-being. 

Two or three years ago — even six months ago — each 
time I went to a new doctor in the hope of recover- 
ing my voice, he would ask me if I did not feel such 
and such a symptom, and when I answered no, he 
would say: "No, there is nothing in the bronchial 
tubes or the lungs; it is the larynx only that is 
affected." Now I begin to feel all the symptoms the 
doctors imagined I had then. Therefore the bronchial 
tubes and the lungs must now be affected. True it 
is nothing as yet, or almost nothing. Fauvel ordered 
iodine and a blister; naturally I cried out in horror; 
I would rather break an arm than suffer myself to be 
blistered. Three years ago a doctor at one of the 
watering-places in Germany found some trouble — I 
don't know just what — in the right lung, under the 
shoulder-blade. This made me laugh heartily. And 
again at Nice, five years ago, I felt something like a 
pain in the same spot. The only thing I feared, how- 
ever, was that I was going to become hump-backed, 
as two of my aunts, sisters of my father, were; and 
now again, a few months since, the doctors asked 
me if I felt anything there. I answered no, without 
thinking. When I cough now, or even when I draw a 
full breath, I feel the pain there, in the right lung, 
at the back. All these things together make me believe 
that there may be really something there. I take a 
sort of pride in showing that I am ill, yet I am scarcely 
pleased at it. It is an ugly death — a very slow one, 
four, five, ten years perhaps, and one grows so thin, 
and loses all one's good looks. 

I have not as yet grown much thinner; I am just 
as one ought to be ; the only thing is that I look tired. 



244 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1880. 

I cough a great deal, and I find difficulty in breathing. 
And yet for the past four years I have been under 
the care of the most celebrated doctors ; I have taken 
the waters they have ordered, yet not only have I not 
recovered my beautiful voice — so beautiful that it 
almost makes me cry to think of it — but I grow worse 
and worse every day, and, let me write the horrible 
word, a little deaf. 

Provided death comes quickly, however, I shall not 
complain. 

Friday, October 22. — It is raining, and the weather 
is cold, — bitterly, frightfully cold. So I am in sym- 
pathy with the weather, and I cough without ceasing. 
Ah, what misery, and what a horrible existence is 
mine! At half-past three there is no longer light 
enough to paint, and if I read by artificial light my 
eyes are too fatigued to paint on the following day. 
The few people I might see I shun through the fear 
of not being able to hear what they say. There are 
some days when I can hear very well, and others when 
I can scarcely hear at all, and then I suffer nameless 
tortures. It cannot be that God will allow this state 
of things to continue. I am ready to suffer every kind 
of misery, however, provided only I am not asked to 
see any one. Every time the bell rings I shudder. 
This new and horrible misfortune makes me dread 
everything that I had before desired. Think what it 
must be for me who am by nature gay and fond of 
jesting! I laugh as much as Mile. Samary of the 
Theatre Frangais; but this is rather from habit than 
any wish to conceal my feelings. I shall always laugh. 
All is over with me; not only do I believe that all is 
over, but I desire that it should be so. There are no 
words with which to express my dejection. 

Monday, October 25. — I am reading "Les Chati- 



1880.J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 245 

ments" ; Yes, Victor Hugo is a genius. Perhaps I 
do wrong even to suspect that I have found certain 
of his lyrical transports extravagant, not to say tire- 
some. No, it is not the case; he is beautiful; he is 
sublime, and, notwithstanding the exaggerated expres- 
sions he at times makes use of, he is human, he is 
natural, he is charming. But I like his passages of 
touching simplicity best — the last act of Hernani, for 
instance, where Dofia Sol pleads with the old man for 
pity; and the words of the old grandmother whose 
grandchild had received two bullets in the brain. 

Monday, November 1. — Our studio now enjoys the 
same advantages as the studio of the men, that is to 
say, we draw from the nude every day from the same 
model in the same pose as they do; consequently we 
can now paint compositions of more importance than 
before. This would have been useless to me for the 
last few months, but I have now reached the point 
at which I am able to profit by it. We are only 
eight in the studio now ; the other pupils, to the num- 
ber of twenty-two, have gone to Julian's new studio, 
51 Rue Vivienne. which is on the same basis as this 
was formerly. 

Tuesday, November 2. — For a week past I have had 
my breakfast brought from the house to the studio. 
This is much more sensible than to run back and forth 
between the Rue Vivienne and the Champs Elysees, 
and thus lose the best hours of the day. In this way 
I am able to work from eight o'clock to noon, and 
from one till four. 

Wednesday, November 10. — It is horrible to have 
worked without ceasing for three years, only to find 
out at the end of them that one knows nothing. 



246 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1880. 

Tuesday, November 16. — I fear that I spoke of 
the church with some exaggeration the other day. I 
afterward felt some compunction in the matter, and 
it depended on the merest chance whether I should 
get up out of bed or not, to make the amende honor- 
able. For it cannot be denied that the church has 
been the means of diffusing a truer knowledge of 
God, it has greatly ameliorated the condition of 
human society, and it has carried the name of God 
and civilization among savage nations. Without 
meaning any offense to religion, I think the work of 
civilization might have been carried on without the 
aid of Catholicism, but — on the whole, the church 
has been a useful instiution, as the feudal system 
was, and, like it too, it has served, or almost served, 
its turn. There are too many things in Catholicism 
that shock the understanding, without being there- 
fore odious, however — sacred things mixed up with 
childish legends. The world is too enlightened now 
for these holy falsehoods to be any longer respected. 
But we are passing through a transition period, and 
unhappily the masses are not yet sufficiently enlight- 
ened to be able to dispense with these idle supersti- 
tions, that bring contempt upon religion and conduce 
to atheism. 

True, there are men who are sincerely religious, 
but are there not also men who are sincere mon- 
archists? — for there are people who believe that 
monarchical institutions are necessary to the pros- 
perity of certain countries. Stay, I did not think 
of this the other day, when I said one needed to 
have the soul of a lackey to advocate a monarchical 
form of government. 

Sunday, December 5. — Dr. Potain came this morn- 
ing, and he wishes me to spend the winter in the 
south, at least until March; otherwise I shall not 



i88o.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 247 

be able to breathe at all soon, or even to leave my 
bed. Truly I am getting on finely! For the last 
four years I have done everything the best physicians 
have ordered me to do, and I am going from bad to 
worse. I have even laid violent hands on my beauty 
in accordance with their orders. I have painted the 
right side of my chest with iodine, and the pain is 
still there. Can it be possible that the continual an- 
noyances I suffer have undermined my health? And 
yet the larynx and the bronchial tubes are not gen- 
erally affected by mental conditions. I don't know 
what to think. I do everything they tell me to do; 
I avoid imprudences, I wash myself with warm water 
only, and yet I grow no better. 

Villevielle told me yesterday that Tony, when he 
came to the studio on Saturday to correct the draw- 
ings, asked to see our pictures for the concours, and 
said of mine that the eyes were drawn in a peculiar 
manner, but that there were some good things about 
them, and that the coloring was charming. He was 
not satisfied with the paintings for the concours, in 
general. If I do not receive the medal, I shall at 
least have made a good study. 

Tuesday, December 21. — I have no longer a buzz- 
ing in the ears, and I can hear Very well. 

Wednesday, December 22. — A picture by a pupil 
of the Rue Vivienne was awarded the medal; she is 
a new pupil — a young American. I received first 
mention. 

Sunday, December 26. — Potain wishes me to go 
away at once. I refused point-blank, and then, half- 
laughingly, half-seriously, I began to complain to him 
of my family. I asked him if the throat could be 
affected by continual fits of anger, and he said de- 



248 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1880. 

cidedly it could. I will not go away. It is delight- 
ful to travel, but not in the company of my family, 
with their tiresome little attentions. I know that I 
should rule them all, but they irritate me, and then, — 
no, no, no! 

Besides, I scarcely cough at all, now. Only, all 
this makes me unhappy. I fancy I can no longer 
extricate myself from it — from what? I haven't the 
least idea; but I cannot restrain my tears. Do not 
suppose they are tears of disappointment at not being 
yet married — no, those are not like other tears. After 
all, perhaps it is that ; but I don't think so. 

And then, everything is so gloomy around me and 
I have no outlet for my feelings ; my poor aunt leads 
so isolated a life, we scarcely ever see each other; 
I spend the evenings reading or playing. 

I can no longer either speak or write of myself 
without bursting into tears. I must indeed be ill. 
Ah, how foolish it is to complain! Does not death 
end everything? 

Why, then, notwithstanding all our fine phrases, 
notwithstanding our certainty that death ends every- 
thing, do we still persist in complaining of the ills 
of life? 

I know that my life, like that of every other human 
being, will end in death — in annihilation; I consider 
all the circumstances of existence, which, however 
flattering they may seem, are mean and wretched 
enough in my eyes, and yet I cannot resign myself 
to die! Life, then, is a force, it is something; it is 
not merely a transient state of being, a period of time 
that it matters little whether it be spent in a palace 
or in a prison? There is, then, something beyond, 
some higher truth than we are able to give expression 
to in the foolish phrases in which we strive to give 
utterance to our thoughts on those subjects? This, 
then, is life, — not a transient state, a thing of no 



i88o.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 249 

value, — but life, the dearest treasure we possess, all 
that we possess, in fact! 

People say it is nothing, because it is not eternal. 
Ah, fools! 

Life is ourselves; it belongs to us, it is all that we 
possess ; how then is it possible to say it is nothing ! 
If life be nothing, tell me, then, what something is. 

Thursday, December 30. — I went to see Tony to- 
day, and came home feeling somewhat comforted. 
We talked a great deal about myself in a general 
way ; he said no one ever expected great results after 
only three years' study; that I want to go too fast, 
that he is convinced I shall succeed, and much more 
to the same effect. In short, I requested him so 
earnestly to be frank with me that I think he spoke 
as he felt. Besides, he has no interest in trying to 
deceive me; and then, what he said was not much 
after all. I have recovered my spirits, however, in 
some degree, and I am ready to begin work on my 
picture. 

What a good, kind fellow Tony is! He says the 
greatest painters have begun to be something only 
after a dozen years or so of study; that Bonnat, after 
seven years of study, was still unknown; that he 
himself exhibited nothing until after eight years. Of 
course I know all this, but, as I had counted on win- 
ning a name before my twentieth year, you can 
imagine what my feelings are. 



2SO JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 



l88l. 

Saturday, January 8. — I have genuine passion for 
my books: I arrange them on the shelves, I count 
them, I gaze at them; only to look at these shelves 
filled with old books rejoices my heart. I stand back 
from them to look at them admiringly, as I would 
at a picture. I have only seven hundred volumes, but 
as they are almost all large ones, they are equivalent 
to a much greater number of the ordinary size. 

Sunday, January 9. — Potain refuses to attend me 
any longer, as I do not obey his orders. Ah, it would 
please me very well to go away — to go to Italy, to 
Palermo. Oh for the cloudless sky, the blue sea, the 
beautiful, tranquil nights of Italy! Only to think of 
seeing Italy again makes me wild! It is as if there 
were some great good in store for me which I am 
not yet ready to enjoy. No, that is not what I want 
to say. It is as if some great happiness awaited me 
which I want to enjoy free from every care, from 
every anxiety. When I say to myself, "I will go to 
Italy," I think immediately afterward, "No, not yet." 
I must first strive, first work, and then — how soon I 
cannot tell — complete repose. Italy! I know not 
wherein the charm consists, but the effect this name 
has upon me is magical, marvelous, indescribable. 

Oh, yes, it is necessary for me to go away ! I must 
be very ill indeed, for Charcot, Potain, and the others 
to order me away! I feel that the air of the South 
would have made me well at once, but the fault is 
theirs. 

But why does not mamma return? They say it is 
unreasonable on my part to want her to do so, but 
the fact that she does not come remains the same. 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 251 

Well, at last it is all over ! I have another year, per- 
haps — 1882 is the important year I had looked for- 
ward to in all my childish dreams. I had fixed on 
1882 as the year that was to decide my destiny — 
but in what sense I could not tell. By my death, per- 
haps. At the studio to-night they dressed up the skele- 
ton to represent Louise Michel, with a red scarf, a 
cigarette in its mouth, and a palette-knife for a poig- 
nard. In me, too, is concealed a skeleton; to that 
must we all come at last. Annihilation! Horrible 
thought ! 

Thursday, January 13 (The Russian New- Year's 
Day). — I still cough a little, and my breathing is pain- 
ful; otherwise I am not noticeably changed; I am 
neither thin nor pale. Potain has left off coming ; my 
malady, he thinks, needs only sunshine and fresh air 
to cure it. He is honest, Potain is; and he does not 
wish to fill me with useless drugs. But I take ass's- 
milk and water-wort, I am sure that a winter spent 
in a warm climate in the open air would cure me, but 
— I know better than any one what it is that is the 
matter with me ; I have always had a delicate throat, 
and constant agitation of mind has contributed to make 
it worse. After all there is nothing the matter with 
me but the cough and my deafness, and that is of very 
little consequence, as you may see. 

Saturday, January 15. — To-day M. Cot, who is to 
take turns with Tony at the studio, entered upon his 
duties. I showed him nothing I had done, though 
Julian had pointed me out to him as the person he 
had spoken to him about. "It is Mademoiselle," he 
said, "who is going to do this," showing him the large 
canvas they had so much trouble to bring into the 
studio yesterday. 

Tony is a man who understands his business — an 



252 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

artist of reputation, an academician, a man of recog- 
nized authority in his art, and the lessons of such a 
man are always an advantage. It is in painting as it 
is in literature: first learn the grammar of the art, 
and your own nature will tell you whether you are 
to write dramas or songs. So that if Tony were to 
be assassinated I would take in his place Lefebvre, 
Bonnat, or even Cabanel — which would not be pleas- 
ant. Painters by temperament, like Carolus, Bastien- 
Lepage, and Henner, compel you to imitate them 
against your will; and they say one learns only the 
faults of those one copies. And then I would not 
choose for my master a painter of single figures only. 
I want to see an artist surrounded by historical pic- 
tures ; the figures in his picture, the persons, lend him 
the support of their names, and would compel me to 
listen to his counsels; though there are pictures of a 
single figure which I would prefer to half a dozen 
pictures with half a dozen figures in each of them. 

The least interesting face in the world may become 
interesting under certain conditions. I have seen, in 
the case of models, the most commonplace heads ren- 
dered superb by a hat, a cap, or a piece of drapery. 
All this is in order to tell you with becoming modesty 
that every evening, after coming home from the studio, 
I wash my hands and face, put on a white gown, and 
drape a white muslin handkerchief around my head, 
after the manner of the old women of Chardin, or the 
young girls of Greuze. This gives my head a sur- 
prisingly charming effect. To-night the handkerchief, 
which was rather large, was draped a I'Egyptienne, 
and I don't know how it was, but my face looked regal. 
As a general thing this word would not be applicable 
to my countenance, but the drapery wrought the 
miracle. This has put me in good spirits. 

I have fallen into this habit of late. To remain with 
my head uncovered in the evening makes me uncom- 



i88i.I JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 253 

fortable, and my "sorrowful thoughts" like to be under 
shelter. I fancy myself more at home, thus — more at 
my ease, so to say. 

I have not learned to understand how one can sacri- 
fice one's life for the beloved object — for a mortal 
like one's-self — and for love of him. 

But I can understand how one might suffer tor- 
tures and death itself for a principle — for liberty, for 
anything that could serve to ameliorate the condition 
of humanity. 

For my part I would be as ready to defend all these 
fine things in France as in Russia ; one's country comes 
after humanity; after all, there are between different 
nations but shades of differences; and I am for sim- 
plicity and broadness of view in treating every ques- 
tion. 

I am not easily carried away by my feelings on this 
point; I am neither a Louise Michel nor a nihilist — 
not at all; but if I thought liberty were seriously 
menaced, I should be the first to take up arms in her 
defence. 

Wednesday, January 26. — After coming home from 
the studio on Tuesday I grew feverish; and I sat in 
the dark in my arm-chair, shivering and half-asleep 
until seven o'clock. I kept my picture constantly 
before my eyes, as has been the case every night 
during the last week. 

As I had taken no nourishment during the day 
except a little milk, the night was still worse. I could 
not sleep, for I had set my alarm-clock, and it wakened 
me; but the picture was still before me, and I work- 
ing on it in imagination. I did the opposite of every- 
thing I ought to have done, however, impelled by an 
irresistible desire to efface all that was well done. It 
was impossible for me to remain quiet: I tried to 
convince myself it was but a dream. In vain. "Is 



254 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

this, then, the delirium of fever ?" I asked myself. I 
think there was something of that in it. I know now 
what it meant, and I should not regret it, if it were 
not for the fatigued feeling I have — more especially 
in my limbs. 

But the strangest part of it was that, in my delir- 
ium, I fancied I was waiting for Julian to give me 
his advice concerning one of the figures I had changed. 

He came yesterday and found that everything I had 
done was wrong; before my dream I had effaced all 
that was good in the picture. 

And last night, by a curious coincidence, I could 
hear perfectly well. 

I feel bruised all over. 

Thursday, February 3. — I have now before my eyes 
the portraits of my father and mother, taken just 
before they were married. I have hung them up as 
"documentary evidence." According to Zola and other 
philosophers of greater fame, it is necessary to know 
the cause if we would understand the effects. My 
mother at the time of my birth was young and full 
of health, and exceedingly beautiful, with brown hair, 
brown eyes, and a dazzling complexion ; my father was 
fair, pale, delicate in health, and was himself the son 
of a robust father and a sickly mother, who died 
young, leaving four daughters, all more or less de- 
formed from their birth. Grandpapa and grand- 
mamma were endowed with vigorous constitutions, 
and they had nine children, all of them healthy and 
robust, and some of them, mamma and Etienne for in- 
stance, handsome. 

The sickly father of our illustrious subject has be- 
come strong and healthy, and the mother, blooming 
with health in her youth, has become feeble and nerv- 
ous, thanks to the horrible existence she has been com- 
pelled to lead. 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKJRTSEFF. 255 

I finished "L'Assommoir" the day before yesterday. 
I was so forcibly impressed with the truth of the book 
that it almost made me sick. I felt as if I had lived 
among those people and talked with them. 

Monday, February 9. — My picture, set aside for a 
time on account of a figure I could not get to my 
liking, goes forward again. I feel as light as a feather. 

My favorite Bastien-Lepage has exhibited a portrait 
of the Prince of Wales, in the costume of Henry IV., 
with the Thames and the English fleet in the back- 
ground. The background has the same tone as the 
"Gioconda." The face is that of a sot; it has alto- 
gether the air of a Holbein, — it might be taken for 
one. I don't like that. Why imitate the style of 
another ? 

Ah, if I could only paint like Carolus Duran ! This 
is the first time I have seen anything I thought worth 
coveting — anything I should like to own, myself, in 
the way of painting. After that everything else seemed 
to be mean, dry, and daubed. 

Saturday, February 12. — At noon to-day the servant 
came running into the studio, her face flushed with 
excitement. M. Julian has received the Cross of the 
Legion of Honor. Every one was rejoiced, and A. 
Neuvegliss and I ran to order a splendid basket of 
flowers, with a large red bow, at Vaillant-Roseau's. 
Vaillant-Roseau is not an ordinary florist, he is an 
artist — 150 francs was not too dear. 

Villevielle returned at three for the express purpose 
of felicitating the master. Julian wore his ribbon, 
and, for the first time in my life, I had the pleasure 
of seeing a perfectly happy man. He declared he was 
this. "There may be people who have still something 
to wish for," he said; "as for me I have everything 
I desire." 



256 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

Then Villevielle and I went downstairs to the studio 
of the director to see the basket; there were rejoic- 
ings, felicitations, and even a little emotion. He spoke 
to us of his old mother, for whom he feared the news 
might be too much; and then of an old uncle who 
would cry like a child, he said, when he heard it. 

"Only think — a little village in the South ! I imagine 
what an effect it will have— a poor little peasant-boy 
who came to Paris without a sou — Chevalier of the 
Legion of Honor I" 

Sunday, February 13. — I have just received a very 
affectionate letter from mamma ; here it is : 

"Grand Hotel, Karkoff, January 27. 

"My adored angel, my cherished child Moussia, if 
you but knew how unhappy I am without you, espe- 
cially as I am uneasy on account of your health, and 
how I long to go to you at the earliest possible 
moment ! 

"My pride, my glory, my happiness, my joy! If 
you could imagine the sufferings I endure without 
you! Your letter to Mme. Anitskoff is before me; 
I read it over and over again like a lover, and I water 
it with my tears. I kiss your little hands and your 
little feet, and I pray the good God that I may soon 
be able to do so in reality. 

"I tenderly embrace our dear aunt. 

"M. B." 

Monday, February 14. — The head in Alice Bris- 
bane's portrait was finished in two hours, and Julian 
told me not to retouch it. And at other times one 
spends a week in making a daub. A part of the bodice 
and of the skirt is also painted in. 

Thursday, March 3. — I am very ill. I have a vio- 
lent cough, I breathe with difficulty, and there is an 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 257 

ominous sound in my throat. I believe this is what 
they call laryngeal phthisis. 

I opened the New Testament lately, a thing I had 
not done for some time past; and on two different 
occasions, within a few days of each other, I was 
struck by the appositeness to my thought of the pas- 
sage at which I chanced to open. I have begun again 
to pray to Jesus; I have returned to the Virgin, and 
to a belief in miracles, after having been a deist, and, 
for a short time, even an atheist. But the religion of 
Christ, as He taught it, bears little resemblance either 
to your Catholicism or to our orthodoxy, the rules of 
which I do not observe, limiting myself to following 
the precepts of Christ, and not concerning myself 
about allegories which have been taken in a literal 
sense, nor with the superstitions and other absurdities 
introduced into religion later on, by men, from 
political or other motives. 

Friday. — I have finished my picture, with the excep- 
tion of a few final touches. 

Saturday, March 19. — Julian cries out that he is 
furious with himself for having given me the subject 
he did for my first picture. "Ah, if it were only your 
second," he says. "Ah, well, ,, I answered, 'let us 
leave it then for the next year." 

Thereupon he looked at me with eyes shining with 
hope at finding me capable of renouncing the vain sat- 
isfaction of exhibiting an unfinished and mediocre 
picture. He would be delighted if I renounced it ; and 
so should I; but the others? — my friends? They 
would say my work had been thought too ill by the 
professors; that I was not able to execute a picture; 
in short, that my picture was rejected at the Salon. 

I have spoken seriously to Julian, and explained my 
feelings to him. He comprehends the state of things 



258 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

very well, and so do I. He says I shall be honorably 
received, and achieve even a certain measure of suc- 
cess ; but this is not what we have dreamed of. The 
men below will not come and stand before my picture, 
and say, "What ! is it a woman who has painted that ?" 
Finally, to save my pride, I proposed to make it appear 
as if an accident had happened to the picture; but 
he would not consent. He had expected a success ; he 
confesses that he is not altogether satisfied, but that 
it may do. And under these conditions; I exhibit ! 

Well, it is done with, and I am rid of my picture, 
but how anxious I shall be until the first of May is 
over ! If I only have a good number ! 

Thursday, March 24. — I have just found a little jar 
of tar under my bed. It was placed there by Rosalie 
to benefit my health. And by the advice of a fortune- 
teller! My family thought this mark of devotion on 
the part of a servant very touching; mamma was very 
much affected; but I poured a jug of water over the 
carpet under the bed, broke a pane of glass, and went 
to sleep in my study through rage. 

Tuesday, March 29. — I learned at the studio that 
Breslau's picture was accepted, and I have heard noth- 
ing of mine. I painted until noon, and then went for 
a drive, that appeared to me interminably long. 

Wednesday, March 30. — I pretended to be asleep 
until ten o'clock, so as not to go to the studio, and I 
am very unhappy. 

Friday, April 1. — April-fooling apart, I am to be 
queen. Julian came himself at midnight last night to 
tell me so, after leaving Lefebvre's. Bojidar went to 
find out from Tidiere, one of the young men down- 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 259 

stairs, without my asking him, and declares that I am 
No. 2. This seems to me too much to expect. 

Sunday, April 3. — Never have I heard Patti sing 
with greater spirit than last night. Her voice had 
such power, such freshness, such brilliancy ! Heavens ! 
what a beautiful voice I had! It was powerful, dra- 
matic, entrancing! It made a chill run down one's 
back to hear it. And now, not even the memory of it 
left! 

Shall I never recover it, then ? I am young ; it may 
be possible. 

Patti does not touch the heart, but she can bring 
tears of enthusiasm to the eyes. To listen to her voice 
reminds one of an exhibition of fireworks. In one 
passage, last night, her notes were so pure, so brilliant, 
so bird-like, that I was completely carried away. 

Tuesday, April 5. — A great surprise ! My father is 
here! They came to the studio for me, and when I 
went home I found him in the dining-room with 
mamma, who paid him a thousand little attentions. 
Dina and Saint-Amand, who were there also, were 
charmed with the spectacle of this conjugal happiness. 

Wednesday, April 6. — I was delayed until nine by 
my father, who insisted upon it that I should not work 
to-day ; but I am too much interested in my torso for 
that, and I shall not see the august family again until 
dinner-time, after which they go to the theater and I 
remain at home alone. 

My father cannot conceive how one can be an artist, 
or how being one can redound to one's credit. I some- 
times think he only pretends to have such ideas. 

Sunday, May 1. — Alexis came early; he had a ticket 
admitting two persons, so that, as I have one also. 



260 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

we can all four go — Monsieur, Madame, Alexis, and I. 
I am not too well pleased with my dress — a costume 
of dark-gray wool, and a handsome, but rather com- 
monplace, black hat. We found my picture at once ; 
it is in the first salon — to the left of the salon d'hon- 
neur, in the second row. I am delighted with the 
place, and very much surprised to see the picture look 
so well. Not that it looks well, but I expected to see 
it look frightful, and it is not bad. 

Through an error, however, they have omitted my 
name in the catalogue. (I have called their attention 
to it, and it will be rectified.) One cannot see the 
pictures very well on the first day. One wants to 
see everything at once. Alexis and I left the others 
from time to time, to look around a little ; then we lost 
sight of them entirely, and I took his arm, for I do 
as I choose ; I come and go without fear of any one. 
We met a crowd of acquaintances, and I received a 
great many fine compliments that did not seem as if 
they were dragged in by the hair. This is but natural ; 
these people, who understand nothing about the mat- 
ter, see a large picture with a good many figures in 
it, and they think it is everything it should be. 

A week ago I gave a thousand francs to be dis- 
tributed among the poor. No one knows of this. I 
went to the principal office, and quickly slipped away 
when I had finished the business that brought me, with- 
out waiting for thanks. The director must have 
thought I stole the money, in order to give it away. 
Heaven grant me a return for my money ! 

Abbema, who was walking through the rooms with 
Bojidar, sent me word that he was pleased with my 
picture; he says that it is strong, full of spirit, etc. 
A few moments afterward we met and made the 
acquaintance of the celebrated friend of Sara Bern- 
hardt. She is a very good girl and I value her praises. 

We breakfasted in the building ; altogether we spent 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 261 

six hours with Art. I shall say nothing of the pictures. 
I will only say that I think highly of Breslau's picture; 
it has great beauties, but the drawing is bad, and the 
colors too thickly laid on in places. And then, such 
fingers, like the claws of a bird! Such noses, with 
slits for nostrils ! Such nails ! And such stiffness and 
heaviness in the execution ! In short, the picture is of 
the impressionist school and Bastien-Lepage is the 
master she copies. 

Where does one see such colors and such perspective 
in nature? 

Notwithstanding all this, however, it possesses beau- 
ties ; and those three heads, placed between the portrait 
of Wolff and the "Mendicant" of Bastien-Lepage, at- 
tract a good deal of attention. 

Friday, May 6. — I went this morning to the Salon, 
where I met Julian, who made me acquainted with 
Lefebvre. The latter said to me that my picture pos- 
sessed great merit. At home here they are always 
talking of the changes that are to take place. They 
all irritate me. My father's ideas are absurd at times. 
He does not himself think so, but he persists in speak- 
ing as if it were of the greatest importance that I 
should consent to spend the summer in Russia. "Peo- 
ple will see then," he says, "that you do not live apart 
from your family." 

Have I ever lived apart from them? Well, I shall 
wait for whatever chance may bring ; but, at all events, 
I will not travel. I shall remain tranquilly ( !) here, 
and I can then be miserable at my ease in my arm- 
chair, where, at least, I am physically comfortable. 

Oh, this dreadful lassitude! Is it natural to feel 
thus at my age ? 

And this it is that drives me to despair. If I 
should ever meet with any good fortune would I have 
the capacity to enjoy it? Could I avail myself of any 



262 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

opportunity that might present itself ? I think at times 
I can no longer see as well as other people — though 
still well enough. 

In the evenings when I am tired out and half 
asleep, divine harmonies float through my brain ; they 
rise and fall, like the strains of an orchestra, but in- 
dependent of my volition. 

Saturday, May 7. — My father wishes to leave Paris 
to-morrow, and mamma is to accompany him. This 
will unsettle everything. 

And I, am I to accompany them? I could sketch 
there in the open air and return in time for Biarritz. 

On the other hand, they say Ems would benefit me. 
Ah, everything is indifferent to me. There is nothing 
left me to hope for. 

Sunday, May 8 — I am almost glad to see that my 
health is giving way, since Heaven has denied me hap- 
piness. 

But when it is completely ruined, everything will 
perhaps change, and then it will be too late. 

Every one for himself — that is true ; but my family 
pretend to love me so much, and they do nothing for 
me. I am nothing now; there seems to be a veil be- 
tween me and the rest of the world. If one only knew 
what there is beyond — but we do not; and then, it is 
precisely this feeling of curiosity I have about it that 
makes the thought of death less terrible to me. 

I cry out a dozen times a day that I want to die; 
but that is only a form of despair. One says to one's- 
self, "I desire to die," but it is not true; it is only 
another way of saying that life is unendurable; one 
always, and in every case, desires to live, especially 
at my age. Besides, there is no need to grieve about 
me. I have life enough still to last for some time 



i88i.J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 263 

longer. No one is to be blamed in the matter; it is 
God who wills it so. 

Sunday, May 15. — Notwithstanding everything — in 
a word, I am to go to Russia with them, if they will 
wait a week for me. I should find it unendurable to 
be present at the distribution of prizes. This is a very 
great chagrin that no one knows anything about except 
Julian; and I shall leave Paris on account of it. I 

went incognito to consult a famous doctor, C . I 

shall never recover my hearing, he says. The pleura 
of the right lung is diseased, and has been so for some 
time; and the throat is in a very bad state. I asked 
him about all this in such a way that, after making a 
careful examination, he was obliged to tell me the 
truth. 

It will be necessary for me to go to Allevard, and 
undergo a course of treatment. Well, I will do so on 
my return from Russia; and from there I will go to 
Biarritz. I will go on with my painting in the country ; 
I will sketch in the open air, and that will benefit my 
health. I write all this filled with rage. 

But here in the house the situation is enough to 
make one weep. Mamma in despair, on the one side, 
at having to go, and I unwilling to go with her, and 
equally unwilling that my aunt should be obliged, in 
accordance with the nonsensical notions of the family, 
to stay here to take care of me. 

My strength is exhausted. I remain the whole 
day without opening my lips, so that I may not have 
to burst into tears. I feel suffocating; there is a con- 
stant buzzing in my ears, and I have a curious sensa- 
tion, as if my bones were breaking through the flesh, 
and this were melting away. And my poor aunt, who 
wants me to be happy, and to talk to her and to stay 
here with her! I repeat it, my strength is exhausted, 
I have no faith in anything good happening, and I 



264 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

think everything evil is possible. I desire neither to 
go nor to stay, but I think that if I were to go they 
would not remain there so long. Besides — I cannot 
say; it is the thought of Breslau's receiving the medal 
that makes me wish to go. Ah, I am unlucky in every- 
thing ! I must then die miserably — I who had so much 
faith in the future; who prayed so fervently. Well, 
after the most moving arguments on all sides, our 
departure has been fixed for Saturday. 

Friday, May 20. — In two words, I have again begun 
to hesitate about going to Russia. Potain came to see 
me to-day, and I count on his aid to be able to remain 
without causing my father too much vexation. Well, 
there is a possibility of my not going. 

But it is Bojidar who has given me the fatal blow. 
The committee made its examination of the pictures 
in the Salon to-day, and admired Breslau's picture 
greatly! My tears, which had been already flowing, 
fell in torrents at this news. My father and mother 
think it is what Potain has said that is troubling me, 
and I cannot tell them the truth; but I shed tears 
enough for both causes. 

After all Potain has said very little that is new, and 
he has made it possible for me to remain here if I 
wish to do so. But Breslau's picture is the thing! I 
have asked Potain to represent my condition to my 
family as worse than it is, and to say to them that 
my right lung is affected, so that my father may not 
be vexed at my remaining here. 

Monday, May 23. — Finally everything was packed 
up and we went to the station. Then, at the moment 
of departure, my hesitation communicated itself to the 
others ; I began to cry, and mamma with me, and then 
Dina and my aunt; and my father asked what was 



i88i.J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 265 

to be done. I responded by tears ; the bell rang ; we 
ran to the cars, in which no seat had been secured 
for me, and they entered an ordinary compartment 
(which I objected to doing). I was going to follow 
them, but the door was already closed, as the compart- 
ment was full, and they went away without our even 
saying good-by. It is all very well for people of the 
same family to abuse one another, and say they detest 
one another, but when it comes to parting they think 
of those things no longer. I cried at the thought of 
going with them, I cry now because I am left behind. 
I scarcely think at all of Breslau. But, after all, I 
shall be able to take the better care of my health here, 
and then I shall not lose time. 



Tuesday, May 24. — I am in despair at not having 
gone with the others. ... I shall telegraph to them 
at Berlin to wait for me there. 

Berlin, Wednesday, May 25. — Accordingly I left 
Paris yesterday. Before leaving I went to see Tony, 
who is very ill, and for whom I left a letter of thanks, 
and to Julian's; he was not at home, which was as 
well perhaps, as he might have made me change my 
mind and remain, and it was necessary for me to go. 
For the last week no one of the family dared look at 
the others for fear of bursting into tears ! And when 
I was left alone I wept constantly, thinking, at the 
same time, how cruel this was for my aunt. She 
must have seen, however, that I also wept when the 
question was one of leaving her. She thinks I do not 
care for her at all, and when I consider what a self- 
sacrificing life this heroic creature has led, I am melted 
to tears. She has not even the consolation of being 
loved as a good aunt! But then there is no one I 
love better. In fine, I am in Berlin; my family and 



266 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

Gabriel were at the station to meet me, and we all 
dined together. 

What is the culmination of horror is my deafness; 
this is the most frightful blow I could have received. 
I now dread everything I before desired. Now that 
I have more experience; that my talents are perhaps 
about to be developed ; that I know better how to man- 
age, it seems to me that the world would be at my 
command if I could only hear as before. And in my 
disease this happens only once in a thousand cases, 
according to what the physicians I have consulted say. 
"Reassure yourself," they would say; "you will not 
become deaf on account of your larynx ; that happens 
very rarely." And it has happened precisely to me. 
You cannot imagine what efforts it costs me, what a 
state of tension I am in continually, to try to conceal 
this odious infirmity. I succeeed in doing so with 
those who have always known me and with those 
whom I seldom see; but at the studio, for instance, 
they know it there. 

And how it affects the intelligence ! How is it pos- 
sible for me to be animated or witty? 

Ah, all is over! 

Faskorr (near Kieff), Thursday, May 26. — I 
needed to take this long journey ; nothing is to be seen 
on any side but immense plains. The view is grand: 
I am delighted with the steppes, which are a novelty 
to me; they give me a sense of infinity; where there 
are villages or forests to be seen it destroys the effect. 
What charms me especially here is the amiable and 
obliging manner of tie officials, even to the lowest of 
them. The people of the custom-house chat with you 
as if they were acquainted with you. But I have had 
already eighty-six hours' travel in the cars, and there 
are still thirty before me. These distances — it makes 
one dizzy to think of them. 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 267 

Gavronzy, Sunday, May 29. — Last night we 
reached Poltava. 

Paul has grown frightfully stout. 

This morning Kapitanenko, Wolkovisky, and some 
others came to see us. My father is very happy, but 
a little troubled at seeing the melancholy effect this 
country produces on me after five years of absence. 
I do not seek to conceal this feeling, and now that 
I am more familiar with my father I no longer try 
to humor him. 

At dinner a dish dre'ssed with onions was served. 
I got up and left the dining-room; the Princess and 
Paul's wife were surprised. Paul's wife is quite 
pretty; she has superb black hair, a fine complexion, 
and not a bad figure; she is a good little woman. 

Saturday, June 4. — Julian writes that Tony R. F. 
took cold while driving home from his mother's in an 
open carriage, and that he has been between life and 
death ever since. He mourns for him as if he were 
already dead. 

Sunday, June 5. — I telegraphed to Julian yesterday 
for news about Tony. I am extremely anxious on 
his account. 

Monday, June 6 {May 25). — Tony is out of 
danger! I am delighted. Rosalie burst into tears 
at the news; she said that if he had died, it would 
certainly have made me ill. She exaggerates a little, 
but — she is a good girl. A letter from Julian, con- 
taining the good news, arrived at the same time as 
the telegram. 

Monday, June 13 (1). — I have begun the portrait 
of a peasant-girl, life-size; she stands leaning against 
a hedge of interlaced branches. 



268 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

Monday, June 27 (15). — I have sketched out one 
of my pictures for the Salon. I am delighted with 
the subject; it is all planned out, and I am burning 
with impatience to begin. 

Wednesday, July 6 (June 24). — I have finished my 
picture: it is better than anything I had done so 
far; the head, which I have done over three times, 
is especially good. 

Monday, July 7. — Nini, her sister, and Dina came 
for me, where I was working out of doors, to take me 
back with them to the house. Some one chanced to 
allude to the superstition that the breaking of a mir- 
ror portends misfortune. This reminded me that on 
one or two occasions I have found three candles 
together in my room. Does this portend that I am 
going to die? There are times when the thought of 
death turns me cold. But I have less fear when I 
let my mind dwell upon God, though this does not 
reconcile me to the thought of death. Or perhaps it 
means that I shall become blind; but that would be 
the same thing as to die, for I should then kill myself. 
What shall we find on the other side, though? But 
what does it matter? At least we escape from our 
present sorrows. Or perhaps I shall lose my hearing 
completely; perhaps I shall grow deaf. The very 
thought of this word, that it scorches my pen to 
write, enrages me. My God — but I cannot now even 
pray as formerly. What if it should portend the death 
of a near relation — of my father, for instance? Or 
of mamma? I should never be able to console my- 
self, in that case, for having ever said to her even one 
cross word. 

Doubtless what most displeases God with me is 
that I take note of all the inward movements of 
my soul, thinking, involuntarily, that such a thought 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 269 

will be set down to my credit, such another to my 
discredit. For, from the moment in which we 
recognize a thought to be good, all the merit of it 
is lost. If I have some generous, or noble, or pious 
impulse, I am immediately conscious of it; as a con- 
sequence I involuntarily experience a feeling of satis- 
faction on account of the benefit that must accrue 
to my soul from this. And because of these thoughts 
the merit of the action resulting from this impulse 
is lost. Thus, a moment since it occurred to me to 
go downstairs and throw myself into mamma's arms, 
and ask her to forgive me for all my past unkindness 
to her, and naturally the thought that followed this 
impulse was favorable to myself, and all the merit 
of it was gone. I felt afterward that to have carried 
out my intention would not have benefited me much, 
for that, in spite of myself, I should have done it a 
little cavalierly, or awkwardly ; for a genuine, serious 
expansion of feeling between us would not be pos- 
sible; shcfhas always seen me turn everything into 
ridicule; to do anything else would not seem natural 
in me; she would think I was acting a part. 

Monday, July 11. — To-day is the feast of St. Paul. 
I have on a ravishing gown; Dina, too, looks charm- 
ing. I laughed and chatted awhile with Lihopay and 
Micha, as amiably as if it amused me. The others 
listened to our amusing talk. Then we danced, papa 
and mamma together, having Paul and his wife for 
their vis-a-vis. Dina, in the wildest spirits, danced 
alone, one fantastic dance after another, and really 
with a great deal of grace. I, too, notwithstanding 
this dreadful affliction (my deafness) which is turning 
me gray, danced for a few minutes, but without gayety 
or even the pretense of it. 

Friday, July 15. — We are at KarkofT; I cough a 



270 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

great deal and breathe with difficulty. I have just 
been looking at myself in the glass, expecting to see 
traces of my malady; but no, there is nothing as yet. 
I am slender but far from being thin, and then my 
bare shoulders have a smooth and rosy appearance 
that does not agree with my cough, nor with the 
sounds to be heard in my throat. I cannot hear as 
well as formerly, however. I have taken cold, and 
that is probably the reason why my cough is worse. 
Ah, well! 

Mamma and I went into one of the convents here, 
to-day, and mamma knelt down and prayed with 
fervor before an image of the Virgin. How can any 
one pray to a picture? I had, indeed, intended doing 
so, but I could not. It is different when the desire 
comes to me of itself, when I am in my own room — 
then I feel the better for having prayed. And I be- 
lieve that God can cure me, but God only. Before 
doing so, however, He would have to forgive me 
first for so many little sins! 

Saturday, July 16. — This morning Pacha, my old 
admirer, arrived here. He has grown stouter, but he 
is still the same rude and uncultivated, but harmless 
being, as before. 

Thursday, July 21. — Here we are at Kieff, the "holy 
city," the "mother of Russian cities," according to 
St. Waldimir, who, having received baptism himself, 
afterward baptized all his people, with their own 
consent or without it, as the case might be, driving 
them into the waters of the Dnieper. Some of them 
must have been drowned, I fancy. What troubled 
the imbeciles most, however, was the fate of their 
idols, which were cast into the river at the same time 
that the people were baptized in its waters. The rest 
of the world is so ignorant with regard to everything 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 2*JZ 

that concerns Russia that I shall perhaps tell you 
something you did not know before, when I say that 
the Dnieper is one of the most beautiful rivers in 
the world, and that its banks are extremely pic- 
turesque. The houses in Kieff have an appearance 
of being thrown together in confusion, pell mell, no 
matter how, as it were. There is an upper city and a 
lower city; and the streets are very steep. This is 
not very agreeable, for the distances are enormous, 
but it is picturesque. Nothing remains of the ancient 
city. The Russian civilization of that time contented 
itself with constructing mean temples, without art or 
solidity, to which fact it is due that we possess few 
or no monuments of the past. If I were given to 
exaggeration, I should say that there are as many 
churches in the city as there are dwelling-houses. 
There are also a great many cathedrals and monas- 
teries; in fact, three or four of these buildings may 
at times be seen standing together in a row, all 
adorned with numerous gilded cupolas; the walls and 
columns are whitewashed and the roofs and cornices 
are green. Often the entire fagade of the structure 
is covered with pictures of the saints, and scenes from 
their lives, but all executed with extreme crudeness. 

We first visited the Lavra, a monastery which 
thousands of pilgrims from all parts of Russia come 
to visit every day. 

The iconostase, or partition that separates the altar 
from the body of the church, is covered with images 
of the saints, either painted or inlaid with silver. The 
shrines, and the doors, which are completely covered 
with silver, must have cost an immense amount of 
money; the coffins of the saints too, which are inlaid 
with wrought silver, and the candelabra and candle- 
sticks, all of the same metal, must be of great value. 
They say these monks have in their possession sacks 
full of precious stones. 



272 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

Mamma prayed with unexampled fervor. I am 
quite sure that Dina and papa prayed for me also. 

The miracle did not take place, however. You 
laugh? Well, as for me I almost counted upon it. 
I attach no importance whatever to churches, relics, 
or masses; no, but I relied on their prayers, on my 
prayers. And I rely upon them still. God has not 
yet heard my prayer, but perhaps one day He will. 
I believe only in God; but is the God I believe in a 
God who listens to us, and who concerns Himself 
in our affairs? 

God may not restore me to health, all of a sudden, 
in a church. I have not deserved this; but He will 
have compassion on me and inspire some doctor who 
will cure me — or perhaps He will suffer time to do 
so. But I shall not cease to pray. 

As for mamma, she believes in images and relics — 
her religion, in a word, is paganism — as is the case 
with the greater number of people who are devout and 
— not very intelligent. 

Perhaps the miracle would have taken place if I had 
believed in the power of images and relics. But at 
the same time that I knelt and prayed I could not 
succeed in doing this. I can more easily understand 
how one should kneel down anywhere else, and pray 
to God quite simply. God is everywhere. But how 
believe in these things? It appears to me that this 
species of fetichism is an insult to God and a wrong 
done Him. In the case of the majority of persons, 
— of the pilgrims, for instance, — God is lost sight of ; 
they see nothing but a piece of dry flesh that has 
the power to work a miracle, or a wooden image to 
which they may pray, and which will hear their 
prayers. Am I wrong? Are they right? 

Paris, Tuesday, July 26. — I am at last here ! This 
is to live ! Among other places, I went to the studio ; 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 273 

they received me there with kisses and cries of wel- 
come. 

Wednesday, July 27. — I mentioned to Julian a sub- 
ject I had thought of for a painting, but he was not 
very enthusiastic about it. And then for two hours 
he did nothing but talk to me of my health, and that 
without any disguise. He thinks my condition seri- 
ous. He may well think so, since two months' treat- 
ment have made no change in it for the better. I 
know myself that it is serious; that I grow worse 
every day; that I am gradually fading away; and at 
the same time I refuse to believe such horrible things. 
Breslau has received her honorable mention. She 

has already had some orders. Madame M , who 

has taken a great interest in her, and at whose house 
she has met the most celebrated artists in Paris, has 
given her an order for her portrait, for the coming 
Salon. She has already sold three or four pictures; 
in short, she is on the road to fortune. And I? — 
And I am a consumptive! Julian tries to frighten 
me so as to induce me to take care of myself. I would 
take care of myself if I had any confidence in the 
result. It is a melancholy fate to befall one at my 
age. Julian is in truth right. In a year from now 
I shall see how changed I shall be; that is to say 
that there will be then nothing left of me. I went 
to-day to visit Colignon. She will die soon; there is 
one who is indeed changed! Rosalie had prepared 
me for it, but I was shocked to see her; she looks 
like death itself. 

Can you not fancy you already see me feeble, 
emaciated, pale, dying, dead? 

Is it not atrocious that this should be so? But, 
dying young, I shall at least inspire every one with 
pity. I am myself touched with compassion when 
I think of my fate. No, it does not seem possible! 



274 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

Nice, Rome, my girlish dreams, the mad delights of 
Naples, art, ambition, illimitable hopes — all to end 
in a coffin, without ever having possessed anything — 
even love ! 

I was right; it is not possible to live, constituted 
as I am, when one's life is such as mine has been 
from childhood. To live to be old would have been 
too much to expect in such circumstances. 

And yet one sees people who are more fortunate 
than I ever hoped to be, even in my wildest dreams. 

For every other sorrow there may be found some 
consolation; but for the pangs of wounded vanity 
there is none ; they are worse than death itself. And 
what of disappointed affection, of absence from those 
we love? These, at least, are not death. I can 
scarcely keep back my tears; I believe that my health 
is irretrievably ruined, and that I am going to die. 
But it is not that I complain of, it is my deafness! 
And then, just now, Breslau; but Breslau is a blow 
that was not needed. Everywhere beaten, everywhere 
repulsed. 

Well, then, let death come. 

Tuesday, August 9. — I went to the doctor's this 
morning; this is the third time in two weeks; he 
makes me go to him so that he may receive a louis 
for every visit, for the treatment is always the same. 

Truly it is enough to drive one mad. They say 
that among a thousand cases of the disease I suffer 
from, in not more than one case does deafness occur, 
and that happens to be precisely my case. We see 
people who suffer from the throat, people who have 
consumption, every day, but they do not become deaf. 
Ah, it is such an unlooked-for misfortune! It was 
not enough that I should lose my voice, that I should 
lose my health, but this unspeakable torture must be 
added to my other trials. This must be a judgment 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 275 

upon me for complaining about trifles. Is it God 
who thus chastises me? The God of pardon, of good- 
ness, of mercy? But the most cruel of men could 
not be more pitiless than this ! 

I am in a state of constant torture. To have to 
blush before my family; to be made to feel their 
complaisance in raising their voices when they speak 
to me! To be obliged to tremble every time I enter 
a shop lest I should betray my deafness ! Then it 
is not so bad, however, but when I am with my friends 
— all the stratagems I am compelled to make use of 
to conceal my infirmity! No, no, no, it is too cruel, 
it is too frightful, it is too terrible! And the models 
— when I am painting! I am not always able to 
hear what they say to me, and I tremble every time 
I think they are going to address me. Do you think 
my work does not show the effects of this? When 
Rosalie is present she helps me, but when I am alone 
I grow dizzy, my tongue refuses to say, "Speak a 
little louder, I cannot hear very well!" My God! 
have pity upon me! And to cease to believe in God 
would be to die of despair. First, the sore throat, 
then the affection of the lungs, and now deafness. 
Now I must undergo treatment for that ! But — I have 
always been under treatment. Dr. Krishaber is to 
blame for all this; it is in consequence of his treat- 
ment that I 

My God, must I then be so cruelly cut off from 
communication with the rest of the world? And it 
is I, I, I ! who have to bear this. There are many 
people to whom it would not be so terrible a mis- 
fortune, but to me 

Oh, what a terrible thing! 

Thursday, August 11. — I go to Passy every day, 
but have no sooner begun work on a picture than 
I conceive a horror of what I have done. And I 



276 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

injure my eyes, and waste my time reading in order 
to quiet my nerves. 

And there is no one whom I can consult in regard 
to my doubts. Tony is in Switzerland, Julian is in 
Marseilles. 

It may be true that I have no greater cause for 
complaint than others have. This may be so; but it 
is equally true that I am no longer good for any- 
thing! Social life, politics, intellectual enjoyments — 
in none of these can I take part, except through the 
medium of a fog, as it were, through which every- 
thing reaches my senses dulled and confused. 

And should I venture to seek these pleasures, I 
would only run the risk of covering myself with 
ridicule or of being taken for a fool. All the ec- 
centricities, the fits of absent-mindedness, the brusque- 
ness I must affect, only to conceal from Saint-Amand 
the fact that I cannot hear well! It is enough to 
discourage the stoutest heart. How is it possible 
to confess that one is deaf, when one is young and 
elegant, and pretends to be able to do everything? 
How is it possible to solicit indulgence or pity in 
such circumstances? Besides, of what use would it 
all be? My head feels splitting, and I no longer 
know where I am. Oh, no! there is no God such 
as I have imagined God to be. There is a Supreme 
Being, there is Nature, there is, there is — but the 
God I have prayed to every day, this God does not 
exist. That God should deny me everything — well 
and good ; but to torture me to death in this manner ! 
To render me more wretched, more dependent than 
any beggar in the street! And what crime have I 
committed? I am not a saint, it is true. I do not 
spend my life in churches; I do not fast. But you 
know what my life has been — with the exception of 
treating my family disrespectfully, who do not de- 
serve it from me, I have nothing to reproach myself 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 277 

with. Of what use would it be to ask pardon every 
night in my prayers for being compelled by circum- 
stances to say disagreeable things to my family? For 
if it be true that I am to blame with regard to 
mamma, you know well it was in order to spur her 
to action that I have spoken harshly to her. 

Friday, August 12. — You think perhaps that I have 
decided upon a subject for my picture? I can do 
nothing. I am possessed by the horrible certainty 
of my incapacity. Here is a month or more gone 
already, counting the time lost in traveling, during 
which I have done nothing. I am disappointed be- 
forehand with my work ; I see it in imagination, with- 
out a trace of animation, beauty, or genius. It is 
odious ! I can do nothing ! 

Saturday, August 13. — You are not ignorant of the 
fact that my right lung is affected; well, you will 
no doubt be glad to learn now that the left lung is 
affected also, though it is true that none of those 
idiots of doctors have told me so as yet. I felt the 
first symptoms of this in the catacombs of the relics 
at Kieff, but I thought it was only a temporary pain 
caused by the dampness. Since then I have felt it 
constantly; to-night it is so severe that I can scarcely 
draw my breath. I feel it very distinctly between 
the shoulderblade and the chest, in the spot where 
the doctors strike their little blows. 

And my picture? 

Sunday, August 14. — Last night I could scarcely 
sleep, and this morning I still feel the pain in my 
chest. 

I have given up the idea of painting my picture — 
that is decided upon. But how much time I have 
lost with it ! — more than a month. 



278 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

As for Breslau, encouraged as she must be by her 
honorable mention, things are no doubt prospering 
with her ; for me, my hands are tied ; I have no longer 
any confidence in myself. 

Thursday, August 18. — . ... I have been looking 
through my portfolios, where I can follow my prog- 
ress step by step. I have often said to myself that 
Breslau knew how to paint before I had begun to 
draw. "But is this girl the whole world to you, then ?" 
you will say. However this may be, I know it is 
no petty feeling that makes me fear this rival. I 
knew from the beginning that she had talent, what- 
ever the professors or our fellow-pupils might say 
to the contrary. And you see that I was right. Only 
to think of this girl troubles me. I have felt a stroke 
of her pencil on one of my drawings like a blow on 
my heart. This is because I am conscious of a power 
in her before which I must at last succumb. She 
always made comparisons between herself and me; 
the dunces at the studio said she would never know 
how to paint ; that she had no idea of color ; that she 
only knew how to draw — exactly what they say of 
me now. That ought to be a consolation to me; in- 
deed it is the only one left me now. 

In 1876 (in February) she received the medal for 
drawing. She began to draw in June, 1875, after 
having studied for two years in Switzerland. As I 
myself saw, it was not until after she had struggled 
for two years against the most discouraging failures 
that she began to succeed in painting. In 1879 she 
exhibited in accordance with Tony's advice. At this 
time I had been painting for six months. In a month 
it will be three years since I first began to paint. 

The question now is whether I am capable of doing 
anything equal to the pictures she exhibited in 1879. 
Julian says that her picture of 1879 was better than 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 279 

that of 1881, only, as they were not good friends, he 
made no effort to push her forward, although he 
refrained from doing anything to keep her back. Her 
picture of last year was placed, as mine was, in the 
morgue, that is to say, in the outer gallery. 

This year she made her peace with Julian, and find- 
ing favor with the new school also, she was placed 
on the line. The medal follows, as a matter of 
course. 

Saturday, August 20. — I have been to see Falguiere, 
the sculptor. I told him I was an American, and 
showed him some of my drawings, telling him of 
my desire to study sculpture; a few of these he 
thought excellent, and the others good. He directed 
me to a studio where he gives lessons, saying that 
should I not succeed in making arrangements there, 
his instructions were at my service either at my own 
house or at his. This was very kind on his part, but 
for a teacher I have Saint Marceaux, whom I adore, 
and I shall content myself with the studio. 

Biarritz, Friday, September 16. — Having bade our 
friends adieu, we left Paris Thursday morning. We 
passed the night at Bordeaux, where Sarah Bern- 
hardt was acting. We secured two stalls in the bak 
cony for fifty francs. The play was "Camille." 
Unfortunately I happened to be very tired; this 
actress has been so raved about that I can scarcely 
tell what I think of her myself. I expected to see 
her do everything in a different way from any one 
else, and I was a little surprised at the natural man- 
ner in which she talked, and walked, and sat down. 
I have seen her only four times; once, when I was 
a child, in "The Sphynx," and again in "The 
Sphynx" not long ago, and in "L'Etrangere." I paid 



280 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

the greatest attention to her every movement. I think, 
perhaps, after all, that she is charming. 

What there is no doubt about is that Biarritz is 
beautiful ! 

The sea has been of an enchanting color all day. 
Such exquisite gray tints! 

Saturday, September 17. — So far I have seen none 
of those extraordinary natural beauties that I ex- 
pected to see at Biarritz. As for the beach, from 
an artistic point of view, it is ugly and disagreeable. 

Oh Nice! Oh, bay of Naples! 

Sunday, September 18. — My costume here is a 
simple gown of batiste or of white flannel, without 
trimming, but charmingly made, boots bought here, 
and a youthful-looking white hat, a hat such as a 
happy woman might wear. This forms an ensemble 
that attracts a great deal of attention. 

Tuesday, September 27. — We spent the day en 
famille, yesterday at Bayonne; to-day we spent at 
Fontarabia, also en famille. I seldom go out ; I would 
like to take a ride, but my riding-habit does not fit 
me, and then it would bore me to ride in the company 
of a Russian whom I scarcely know, and whom I find 
tiresome. 

There is a roulette table here at which I tried my 
luck; when I had lost forty francs I stopped, and 
occupied myself in sketching instead. I sat in an 
obscure corner, and I hope no one observed me. 

We left Biarritz on Thursday morning, and reached 
Burgos last night. I was struck by the majestic 
beauty of the Pyrenees. I made a rough sketch of 
the Cathedral; but how describe these painted sculp- 
tures, this conglomeration of gilding and ornamenta- 
tion that go to make up a magnificent whole? The 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 281 

chapels, however, with their immense gratings and 
shadowy recesses, are wonderful. In the Cathedral 
is the Magdalen of Leonardo da Vinci. Shall I con- 
fess that I found it ugly, and that' it caused me no 
emotion whatever, which, for that matter, was the 
case with the Madonnas of Raphael also. 

Since yesterday morning we have been in Madrid. 
We went this morning to the Museum. Compared 
with this collection the Louvre, Rubens, Philippe de 
Champagne, even Vandyke and the Italian painters, 
sink into insignificance. There is nothing in the 
world to equal Velasquez; but I am still too dazzled 
to be able to judge clearly. AndRibera! He is won- 
derful! These, these indeed are the true exponents 
of naturalism! Can there be anything more admir- 
ably, more divinely true to nature than these? Ah, 
how it moves me, and how unhappy it makes me to 
see such things! Ah, how it makes me long for 
genius ! And they dare to compare the pallid pictures 
of Raphael, and the unsubstantial paintings of the 
French school, with these! And the coloring! It 
is impossible that one who feels color as I do should 
be unable to produce it. 

At nine o'clock this morning I was already at the 
Museum, among the paintings of Velasquez, beside 
which those of every other artist look hard and cold, 
not excepting even those of Ribera, who, indeed, can- 
not be considered his equal. In the "Portrait of an 
unknown Sculptor" there is a hand which is the clue 
to the secret of Carolus Duran's admirable execution: 
the latter, as we know, desires to reproduce Velas- 
quez. 

We bought a Spanish guitar and a Spanish man- 
dolin. The rest of the world has no idea of what 
Spain is like. And they say Madrid is less dis- 
tinctively Spanish than the cities we have yet to see 
— Toledo, Granada, Seville. Such as it is, I am 



282 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

enchanted to be here. I am feverishly eager to get 
my hand in by copying something at the Museum, 
and afterward painting a picture, even if I should 
have to stay here two months to do it. 

Thursday, October 6. — I have copied the hand of 
Velasquez. I went to the Museum, dressed quietly 
in black, with a mantilla, such as all the women here 
wear; yet a great many persons came to stand be- 
hind my chair and look on while I worked — one man 
in particular. 

It seems that in the matter of gallantry the men 
in Madrid are even worse than those in Italy; they 
walk up and down under their mistresses' windows, 
playing the guitar; they follow you and talk to you 
in the street, and they are persistent in their atten- 
tions. Love-letters are exchanged in church, and 
every young girl has five or six of these admirers; 
they are extraordinarily gallant with ladies, without 
however transgressing the bounds of delicacy; they 
accost you in the street and tell you that you are 
beautiful and that they adore you; they ask in all 
honor and good faith, knowing that you are a lady, 
to be allowed to accompany you. 

Here you may see men spread their cloaks on the 
ground that you may pass over them. For my part 
I find all this delightful. Whenever I walk in the 
street, tastefully and simply dressed, as is my custom, 
the men stop to look at me. This makes me feel a 
new life ; it is a romantic and novel existence, colored 
with the chivalry of the middle ages. 

Monday, October 10. — As I was painting at the 
Museum, two men, neither of whom was young or 
handsome, came up and asked me if I were not Mile. 
Bashkirtseff. I answered that I was; they appeared 
delighted. M. Soldatenkoff is a millionaire from 



i88ij JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 283 

Moscow, who has traveled a great deal, and who 
adores art and artists. Pollack told me afterwards 
that Madrazo, the other man, the son of the director 
of the Museum, and himself an artist, admired my 
copy very much, and asked to be presented to me. 
Soldatenkoff asked me if I wished to part with the 
picture, and I was so foolish as to say no. 

As for painting, I am on the way to learn a great 
deal about it here. I can see things now that I never 
saw before. I keep my eyes wide open ; I walk around 
on tiptoe ; I scarcely dare to breathe, so to speak, lest 
the spell should be broken, for it is a veritable spell ; 
I hope at last to realize my dreams. I think I know 
now how to set to work; all my energies are directed 
toward the one absorbing aim — to produce something 
that shall be good, that shall be real fresh — something 
lifelike — and when I can do that I can do greater 
things; for everything — everything is in the execu- 
tion. What is the "Vulcan's Forge" of Velasquez, 
or his "Spinners"? Take away from these paintings 
their wonderful execution, and nothing but common- 
place figures remain. I know that many people will 
cry out in disapproval of this, beginning with the 
fools who pretend to adore feeling; and feeling, in- 
deed, is much; it is the poetry of style, the chief 
charm of art. This is more true than we are apt 
to think. Do you admire the primitive style of art? 
its crude and meagre forms, its smooth execution? 
It is curious and interesting, but it is impossible to 
admire it. Do you admire the Virgins in the cartoons 
of Raphael? I shall be considered wanting in taste, 
but I confess that they do not touch me; there is 
in them a feeling and a nobility of style that com- 
mand my respect, but I cannot admire them. There 
are some other compositions of Raphael, however, 
as the "School of Athens" for instance, that are ad- 
mirable, incomparable; especially engraved or photo- 



284 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

graphed. There is feeling in them, thought, true 
genius. Observe that I dislike equally the gross flesh 
of Rubens, and the magnificent, but soulless, flesh 
of Titian. Soul is as necessary in a painting as 
body. The true artist should conceive as a man of 
genius, and execute as a poet. 

Tuesday, October 12. — I dreamed last night that 
they were explaining to me what was the matter with 
my right lung; into certain portions of it the air can- 
not penetrate, and this causes an accumulation — but 
it is too disgusting to describe; let it suffice that the 
lung is affected. And I am convinced that it is so, 
for I have felt a sort of malaise for some time past 
— a debility, for which I cannot account. In short, 
I have a strange sort of feeling as if I were different 
from other people; as if I were surrounded by an 
enervating atmosphere, so to speak; I feel a peculiar 

sensation in my chest, I have But why describe 

all these symptoms? — the disease will soon make it- 
self sufficiently evident. 

Wednesday, October 13. — I am finishing my copy 
of the "Vulcan" of Velasquez, and if I am to judge 
by what the public thinks of it, it must be good. The 
poor devils of artists, who make copies on a reduced 
scale of celebrated pictures for sale, come often dur- 
ing the day to watch me while I work, and the young 
fellows from the School of Fine Arts, as well as 
many of the visitors, French, English and Spanish, 
discuss my work among themselves, and say the most 
flattering things of me. 

Friday, October 14. — At seven o'clock yesterday we 
set out for Toledo. I had heard so much of this 
city that I expected to see something wonderful. In 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 285 

defiance of reason and common-sense I had pictured 
it to myself as something in the style of the Renais- 
sance and the Middle Ages — with marvelous build- 
ings, sculptured doors blackened with time, balconies 
exquisitely carved, etc. I knew very well it must 
be quite different from all this, but such was the 
image of it fixed upon my mind; and the contrast 
it formed with the thin walls and broken-down gates 
of the city, as they presented themselves to my view, 
spoiled Toledo for me. Toledo is situated on a height 
like a citadel ; it is a labyrinth of little streets, narrow 
and crooked, into which the sun never penetrates, 
and where the inhabitants seem to be camping out, 
so little do their houses resemble ordinary dwellings. 
It is a Pompeii preserved entire, but looking as if 
it might crumble into dust at any moment, through 
age; the soil is parched, and the high walls burned 
by the sun; there are wonderfully picturesque court- 
yards, mosques converted into churches, and daubed 
with whitewash, beneath which may be seen, however, 
where this peels off, paintings and arabesques of 
which the colors are still vivid, with ceilings of carved 
wood divided into compartments, that have grown 
black with time, and beams crossing each other curi- 
ously overhead. The cathedral is as fine as that of 
Burgos, and is profusely ornamented; its doors are 
marvels of beauty, and the cloister, with its courtyard 
filled with oleanders and rose-bushes, that have made 
their way into the galleries and twined themselves 
around the pillars and the somber statues — there is an 
indescribable charm about all this, when a ray of 
sunlight falls upon it. 

No one who has not seen them, can form an idea 
of the Spanish churches — the guides in rags, the sa- 
cristan in velvet, strangers walking around, or kneel- 
ing down praying, dogs barking — all this has a won- 
derful charm. One almost expects, on coming out of 



286 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF [1881. 

one of these chapels, to meet suddenly, behind some 
pillar, the idol of one's soul. 

It is incredible that a country so near the center 
of European corruption should be still so primitive, 
so uncontaminated, so rude. 

And what colonnades, what pilasters, what antique 
doors, studded with large Spanish or Moorish nails! 
Everything is a picture. One has not even the trouble 
of choosing; all that is to be seen is odd and interest- 
ing. 

Sunday, October 16. — One of the most curious 
things to be seen is the Rastro, — a street lined with 
booths, resembling the shops in Russian villages, where 
all sorts of things are to be found. And what life, 
what animation, under this burning sun! It is won- 
derful! Here marvelous articles of bric-a-brac are 
stored away in dirty houses. In little back-shops and 
up romantic staircases are to be found such stuffs as 
might make one wild with rapture. 

And their miserable owners seem to be absolutely 
indifferent to the value of these things; they pierce 
the most beautiful stuffs, with which the walls are 
covered, with nails on which to hang up old pictures ; 
they walk over embroideries spread out upon the floor, 
over pieces of antique furniture, pictures, sculptures, 
reliquaries, silver-ware, and old rusty nails all heaped 
together. I bought an embroidered curtain of a red- 
dish salmon color, for which they asked me seven hun- 
dred francs and gave me for a hundred and fifty, and 
a cloth skirt embroidered with flowers of a pale pretty 
tint, for a hundred sous, after they had asked me 
twenty francs for it. 

Escobar came to-day to take us to see the bull-fight. 
Eight bulls had been announced to appear, and it was, 
I believe, the last Sunday of the season. The spec- 
tacle was a brilliant one; the King, the Queen, and 



iS8i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 287 

the Infanta were all in their places. There were music 
and sunshine, wild cries, stampings of the feet, and 
hisses ; handkerchiefs were waved, hats thrown in the 
air. The spectacle is a unique one of overpowering 
grandeur. I began after a time to enter into the spirit 
of the thing, and to take an interest in what was going 
on, though I had gone there against my inclinations, 
and with a shudder of disgust. In full view of this 
butchery, carried on with the utmost refinement of 
cruelty, I was able to maintain a tranquil air, sus- 
tained by my pride. I did not once turn my eyes away. 
One leaves the scene slightly intoxicated with blood, 
so to say, and feeling a desire to thrust a lance into 
the neck of every chance person one meets. 

I stuck my knife into the melon I was cutting at 
table, as if it were a banderilla I were planting in the 
hide of a bull, and the pulp seemed like the palpitating 
flesh of the wounded animal. The sight is one that 
makes the knees tremble and the head throb. It is a 
lesson in murder. Yet these men are elegant and 
graceful, and notwithstanding their extreme agility 
their movements are dignified and noble. 

Some people regard this duel between man and 
brute, in which the latter seems to have so much the 
advantage, both in size and strength, over the former, 
as a noble spectacle; but can it with truth be called 
a duel, when one knows from the first which of the 
combatants it is that must succumb? I will confess 
that there is something to captivate the imagination 
in the sight of the matador, with his brilliant costume, 
that displays the graceful contours of his figure, as he 
places himself, after thrice saluting the spectators, just 
in front of the animal, and stands calm and self-pos- 
sessed, his cloak on his arm, his sword in his hand. 
And this is the best part of the performance, for so 
far there is scarcely any blood shed. As for the suf- 
ferings of the horses, the Spaniards themselves do not 



288 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

like that part of it. Have I become reconciled, then 
to this barbarous amusement? I do not say that, but 
it has its grand, almost its heroic, side. In this amphi- 
theater with its fourteen or fifteen thousand spectators, 
we seem to catch a glimpse of antiquity — that antiquity 
I so much admire. But on the other hand it has also 
its sanguinary, its horrible, its ignoble side. If the 
men who engage in it were less skillful ; if they were 
more often to receive a serious wound or two, I should 
say nothing. But what revolts me in it is this exhi- 
bition of human cowardice. Yet it is said the pro- 
fession of a matador requires the courage of a lion. 
I do not think so. These men know very well how 
to avoid the attacks of the brute, terrible it is true, 
but attacks which they themselves have provoked, and 
which they are prepared for. The real danger is in 
the case of the banderillero, where the man invites the 
attack of the animal, and just as the latter is about to 
transfix him with his horns, anticipates him by plant- 
ing his banderillas between the shoulders of the brute. 
For this, exceptional courage and skill are required. 

Wednesday, October 19. — I cough so violently that 
I fear it must end by causing some injury to the lungs. 
And along with this I am growing thin, or rather — 
yes, I am growing thin ; look at my arm, for instance ; 
when I stretch it out it has a delicate look, instead 
of its former insolently robust one. It is pretty, still, 
however. I do not complain as yet. This is the in- 
teresting period, when one is slender without being 
thin, and there is a certain air of languor in my 
appearance that is very becoming ; but if I continue 
thus, in a year more I shall be a skeleton. 

Thursday, October 20. — I spent two hours in Cor- 
dova this morning — just the time necessary to take a 
glance at the city, which is charming — in its way. And 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 289 

I adore cities like Cordova; there are some Roman 
ruins that absolutely enchanted me, and the mosque 
is a veritable wonder. 



Saturday, October 22. — Well, here we are in Seville, 
this much-vaunted city. Indeed I lose a great deal 
of time here. I have seen the Museum — a single hall 
full of Murillos; I would have liked better to see 
something else, especially here ; there are only Virgins 
and other sacred pictures. I, rude and ignorant bar- 
barian as I am, with whom the opinions of others have 
but little weight, have never yet seen a Virgin such as 
I imagine her to have been. The Virgins of Raphael 
are beautiful in photographs; I confess that the Vir- 
gins of Murillo, with their round faces and rosy 
cheeks, appeal but little either to my imagination or 
my heart. I will make an exception in favor of that 
in the Louvre, however, which has been so extensively 
copied; that is the one which is painted with most 
feeling; indeed, it might almost be characterized as 
divine. 

And the cigar factory! What an odor prevails 
there! If it was only that of the tobacco, well and 
good ! But the building is crowded with women with 
bare necks and arms, little girls, and children, most 
of whom are very pretty. Our visit here was an in- 
teresting one. The Spanish women are endowed with 
a grace not to be found among any other people. 
Cigarette-rollers, women who sing in cafes, walk with 
the air of a queen. And the way in which the head 
is set upon the shoulders ! And such arms, round and 
beautifully molded, and rich in coloring. They are 
indeed captivating and wonderful creatures. 

Tuesday, October 25. — We have seen the Cathedral, 
which is, in my opinion, one of the most beautiful, 



290 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

as well as one of the largest, cathedrals in the world ; 
the Alcazar, with its delightful gardens, and the Bath 
of the Sultans. Afterward we took a stroll through 
the streets. I do not exaggerate when I say that we 
were the only women who wore hats, so that it is to 
our hats I attribute the attention we attracted. 

If I had even been more elegantly dressed, but I wore 
a gray woolen dress, a black coat, and a black travel- 
ing hat. But strangers here are regarded somewhat 
as learned monkeys might be; people stop to look at 
them, and either hoot at them or pay them compli- 
ments. 

The children hoot at me, but the grown-up people 
tell me I am beautiful and salada; to be salada is, 
as you know, to be very chic. 

Seville is white — all white; the streets are narrow; 
through a few of them only can a carriage pass ; and 
yet it is not so picturesque as one would expect to 
find it. Ah, Toledo ! I perceive now what a barbarian 
I am! 

These half-savage women and children in their rags 
are wonderful in coloring. The view is ravishing, 
notwithstanding the bare look of the white houses, 
but it rains all the time; and then, I am en famille. 

I expected to meet with no end of amusing adven- 
tures in Seville, and I am so bored that I remain in 
my room in the hotel almost all the time, and then, 
it rains without ceasing. 

There is no romance here, no poetry, no youth even. 
There is nothing — I repeat it, there is nothing to inter- 
est me in Seville; I feel as if I were buried alive — 
as I felt this summer in Russia. Why all this travel- 
ing? And my painting? It is now five months since 
I was at the studio. Of these five months I have lost 
three in travel — I, who have so much need to work. 
The mention of Breslau has awakened a world of 
thoughts within me, or rather it has brought nearer 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 201 

to me, it has rendered possible, and given a character 
of reality to that dream of the medal of the Salon 
which was so far in the distance, which I dreamed of 
in the romances I wove before going to sleep at night, 
as I dreamed of receiving the cross of the Legion of 
Honor, or of being Queen of Spain. When Villevielle 
came to announce to me the probability of Breslau's 
mention, she looked as if she thought it made me — 
in short, others, by admitting that I might dare to 
dream of a prize, have given me the daring to dream 
of it; or rather, to say to myself that since others 
think I might hope to receive it, there must be a pos- 
sibility of my doing so. In brief, for the past five 
months I have cherished this dream. 

It appears as if I were digressing, but all the events 
of life are linked one with another. Lorenzo's studio 
would be a good subject for a picture. 

Thursday, October 27. — Oh, happiness! I have left 
that frightful Seville! 

I say frightful, the more especially because since last 
night we have been in Granada, because we have been 
sight-seeing this morning, and because I have already 
seen the inevitable Cathedral, the Generalife, ; and 
something of the Caves of the Gypsies. I am in a 
state of rapture. At Biarritz and Seville I felt as if 
my hands were tied, as if everything were at an end — 
dead. From the little I saw of Cordova it impressed 
me as being an artistic city ; that is to say, I felt that 
I could have worked there with enthusiasm. As for 
Granada there is only one thing I regret, and that is 
that I cannot remain here for six months of a year. 
I don't know on what side to turn, there are so many 
things to be seen. Such streets! such views! such 
outlines ! 

To-morrow I am to visit the Alhambra, and to 
sketch the head of a convict which I am going to paint. 



292 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

Friday, October 28. — I spent yesterday, accordingly, 
in the prison of Granada. The prisoners enjoy a de- 
lightful degree of liberty; the courtyard looks like a 
market-place, the doors do not even appear to close 
well ; in brief this prison bears no resemblance what- 
ever to the descriptions we read of the French 
prisons. 

The prisoner condemned to death walks up and 
down the courtyard with the same freedom as the one 
condemned to imprisonment for a year or two for 
some trifling offense. 

Saturday, October 29. — At last I have seen the 
Alhambra. I refrained purposely from devoting much 
attention to its beauties; in the first place, so that I 
might not become too much attached to Granada, and 
in the second place, because our guide interfered by 
his presence with my artistic enjoyment. I promise 
myself to revisit it, however. 

Granada, seen from the tower, is wonderfully beau- 
tiful — the mountains covered with snow, the gigantic 
trees, the shrubs, the exquisite flowers, the cloudless 
sky, and then the city itself, with its white houses 
bathed in sunshine, surrounded by all these natural 
beauties; the Moorish walls, the tower of the Gen- 
eralife, and the Alhambra! And, far as the eye can 
reach, a sea of space; indeed, nothing but the sea itself 
is wanting to make this the most delightful country 
in the world. There is nothing that can be compared 
to the majestic grace of these superb draperies. My 
mind is filled with thoughts of Boabdil and his Moor- 
ish companions whom I can fancy I see walking 
through the halls of this palace, unique of its kind. 

Sunday, October 30. — Granada is as picturesque 
and artistic as Seville is commonplace, notwithstand- 



i88i.J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 293 

ing her famous school. The streets of Granada are 
almost all wonderfully picturesque. 

One is dazzled and distracted in every sense. One 
might copy the first chance view one sees, and it would 
be a picture. 

I shall return here next August to remain until the 
middle of October. 

Monday, October 31. — I am glad that the cold drives 
me away, for otherwise I could not make up my mind 
to leave this country, and it is necessary for me to 
return to Paris. It is five months since I have seen 
Tony, and it is time for me to think of hiring a studio 
so as to be able to paint my picture for the Salon 
at my leisure, and with my utmost skill. The first 
year did not count ; the year after you know how short 
was the time I had in which to prepare my picture, 
besides the other drawbacks; but this year I hope to 
send something really interesting. 

I should like to paint the bric-a-brac shop of Lo- 
renzo — a brilliant light falling on the staircase at the 
further end, with a woman in the background arrang- 
ing some draperies on this species of estrade. In the 
foreground another woman bending down, engaged in 
cleaning some brass ornaments, and a man who stands 
looking at her with his hands in his pockets, smoking 
a cigar. 

The women would be dressed in their ordinary 
chintz gowns, which I could buy in Madrid. I have 
almost all the other accessories ; all that would remain 
to be done is the arrangement of the estrade, which 
would cost a hundred francs or so. But it would be 
necessary to find a studio large enough. Well, we 
shall see. We are to set out to-night, and I can 
scarcely contain myself for joy. 

My travels in Spain will have the good effect of 
curing me of eating simply for the sake of eating; 



294 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

which is a waste of time and dulls the intelligence. 
I have become as abstemious as an Arab, and eat only 
what is strictly necessary — just enough to sustain life. 

Wednesday, November 2. — Here we are again in 
Madrid, where I came a week ago, to remain three 
days in the hope of retouching a sketch of the shop 
of Lorenzo. 

Although she had heard me speak of nothing but 
this for some days past, and knew how impatient I was 
to reach Madrid, it was quite natural, was it not, that 
my aunt should come, ready dressed to go out, and 
say to me: "Well, shall we spend the day doing our 
shopping?" And when I answered that I was going 
to paint, she looked at me in astonishment and told 
me I was crazy. 

An idea strikes me: I think I have found a subject 
for a picture ; I collect all my energies : the vision takes 
form in my mind, I sketch it out, I am completely 
absorbed in my work; I rack my brain to find a har- 
monious arrangement, — and just as I think I have 
found it, and am trying to fix it upon my mind before 
it vanishes, comes some one of that dear family who 
are so uneasy every time I cough, to interrupt me. 
And yet I am not exceptionally sensitive, either ! Com- 
pared with other artists, indeed, I regard myself as 
exceedingly practical, though not sufficiently so, as you 
see. Ah, thoughtless and careless family! they will 
never understand that any one less strong, less 
energetic, less buoyant in spirit than I am would be 
already dead! 

Saturday, November 5. — I am back in Paris ! What 
happiness ! I counted the hours, as I sat shivering in 
the railway coach, until we arrived. The recollection 
of the scorching sun and the burning air of Spain 
makes the cool, subdued tints of this beautiful city 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 295 

seem refreshing to my senses, and I think with de- 
light of the ceramics of the Louvre — I who was bored 
to death by the very thought of them before. 

Julian thought I should not return until much later 
— and then, ill ; that perhaps, indeed, I should not re- 
turn at all. 

Ah, how sweet is sympathy! — and above all, how 
sweet is art! 

Tuesday, November 15. — I have shown Julian a 
sketch of a picture, which he approves of. But he no 
longer inspires me with confidence ; he looks confused 
when he speaks to me; in short, I can imagine what 
he is thinking about. 

Tony is still left me, but I have not cultivated his 
friendship as I have Julian's, and then — well, we 
shall see. 

Thursday, November 17. — Yesterday I could 
scarcely drag myself about ; my throat pained me, my 
chest pained me, my back pained me, I had a cold 
in the head, I could swallow nothing, and I was hot 
and cold by turns a dozen times in the course of the 
day. 

I am a little better to-day, but that is not saying 
much, considering that I am now, and have been for 
a long time past, under the care of the greatest 
physicians in the world ! For ever since the time when 
I first lost my voice they have been treating me. Yes, 
that is the ring of Poly crates that I have thrown into 
the sea, — very much against my will, it is true. 

Monday, November 21. — They sent for Potain on 
Wednesday ; he came to-day ; in the meantime I might 
have died. 

I knew very well that he would again order me 
South; I set my teeth hard, and my voice trembled, 



296 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

and it was only by an effort that I could keep back 
my tears. 

To go South! That is to acknowledge myself con- 
quered. And the persecutions of my family make 
it a point of honor with me to keep on my feet, in 
any case. To go away would be to give all the 
vermin of the studio cause for triumph — to make 
them say, "She is very ill; they have taken her 
South." 

Tuesday, November 22 — I cannot describe the feel- 
ing of despair which this banishment to the South 
would cause me. I should feel as if everything were 
ended — I who came back intoxicated with the idea 
of leading a quiet life — a life devoted to study — 
hard study, study without relaxation; of keeping up 
with the times. And now to see all this at an end ! 

And while the others are steadily progressing here 
in Paris, the home of art, I shall be down there doing 
nothing, or making futile attempts to paint a picture 
in the open air, which is something frightfully difficult 
to do. 

There is Breslau — it is not her picture of a peasant 
woman that has won her a reputation — my heart is 
ready to break at the thought of it all ! 

This evening I saw Charcot, who says the disease 
is no worse that it was last year; as for the trouble 
I have had for the past six days, it is a simple cold 
that I should soon be well of. In regard to my going 
South, he thinks as Potain does — I must either go 
there or shut myself up in the house like a prisoner. 
Otherwise I run the risk of being seriously ill, seeing 
that the right lung is affected, although it appears 
there is still some hope of my getting well; it is a 
curable disease, confined to one spot, and it grows no 
worse, notwithstanding my pretended imprudences. 
They said the same thing last year, about going South, 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 297 

and I would not even listen to them. Now I hesitate, 
and I have done nothing since four o'clock but cry 
at the thought of leaving Paris, and again interrupting 
my studies. 

It is true that if I am to be often as ill as I have 
been for these last few days I should profit little by 
remaining in Paris. 

To yield, to acknowledge myself beaten, to say 
"Yes, the doctors are 'right — yes, I am ill" — this is the 
thought that makes me desperate. 

Saturday, November 26. — I was to have gone to see 
Tony, as you may remember, to show him my sketch, 
and decide upon some subject for a picture, that I was 
to paint under his guidance; but I have not left the 
house. I am weak, and I can eat nothing ; I am prob- 
ably still feverish. It is horribly sad to be kept in this 
state of inaction by — by — I don't know what, by want 
of strength ; in short, Charcot has resumed his visits. 

Mamma and Dina arrived yesterday, recalled by the 
foolish dispatches of my aunt. This morning Dina 
received a letter from her sister asking how I was. 

I have taken cold, I know, but that might happen 
to any one. 

But no ; everything is ended ; my hearing is in a de- 
plorable state with this cold and this fever. What 
can I aspire to ? What can I attain to ? There is no 
longer anything to hope for. It is as if a veil had 
been torn from before my eyes, that day nearly a week 
ago. Everything is at an end — everything, every- 
thing. 

Tuesday, November 29. — Well, this has lasted now 
for fourteen days, and will probably last fourteen days 
longer. Madame Nachet brought me a bunch of vio- 
lets to-day, which I accepted as any one might have 



298 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

done, for notwithstanding the fever, which has not 
left me for two weeks, and a congestion of the right 
lung, otherwise pleurisy, and two blisters, I have not 
yet given in ; I get up every day and act in every way 
like an ordinary person, only the quinine makes me 
deaf. The other night I thought I should die of terror, 
because I could no longer hear the ticking of my 
watch; and it seems I must go on taking it. 

Otherwise I feel almost strong, and if it were not 
that I have been able to swallow nothing for the last 
fortnight, I should scarcely be aware that I am ill. 

But my work, my picture, my poor picture! It is 
now the 29th of November, and I shall never be able 
to commence it before the end of December; I shall 
not be able to finish it in two months and a half. 
What a piece of ill-luck ! And how useless it is when 
one has been born to misfortune to struggle against 
fate ! You see painting was a sort of refuge for me, 
and now at times I can hardly hear; the consequences 
of this are the greatest embarrassment with the models, 
continual anguish of spirit, and the impossibility of 
painting a portrait unless I make up my mind to 
acknowledge my infirmity — a thing I have not the 
courage to do. Then this illness, the impossibility 
of going on with the work, and the necessity of shut- 
ting myself up in the house for a month. It is too 
much! 

Dina never leaves me; she is so good! 

Paul and his wife arrived yesterday. The Gavinis 
and Gery, Bojidar and Alexis also came. And I try 
to keep up my courage and extricate myself from the 
embarrassing situations that are continually present- 
ing themselves, by dint of joking and bravado. 

The doctors are the subjects of our pleasantries 
just now. As Potain cannot come himself every day, 
he has sent me a doctor who will come in his stead. 

And this serves to amuse me, because I pretend to 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 299 

be crazy, and avail myself of this pretended madness 
to give utterance to the wildest nonsense. 

Wednesday, November 30. — Julian was here last 
evening. I could see by his affected cheerfulness that 
he thinks me very ill; as for me, I am in the deepest 
affliction; I can do nothing, and my picture is at a 
standstill. But worst of all is to be able to do noth- 
ing ! Can you conceive the anguish of that ? To stay 
with your arms hanging idly by your sides while others 
are studying, progressing in their work, preparing their 
pictures ! 

I thought that God had left me painting as a refuge 
from my troubles, and I gave myself up entirely to it, 
and behold ! it has failed me, and now there is noth- 
ing left for me to do but weep. 

Thursday, December 1 ; Friday, December 2. — The 
second of December already! I ought to be at my 
work; I ought to be looking for the draperies for my 
picture, and the large vase which figures in the back- 
ground. But why these details? They only serve to 
make me shed tears. Yet I feel much stronger ; I eat, 
I sleep, I am almost as well as usual. 

But there is congestion of the left lung. That on 
the right side — the chronic trouble — is better, it 
seems; but that is of no consequence; it is the acute 
attack, which might be cured, that will keep me shut 
up in the house for a few weeks longer. It is enough 
to make one go drown one's-self. 

Ah, how cruel it is of God to afflict me in this way ! 
I had my annoyances — family troubles — but they did 
not touch my inmost heart. I had extraordinary hopes 
of being a great singer — and I lose my voice ; this was 
the first blow ; finally I become accustomed to the loss, 
I resign myself to it, I get over it, I console myself 
for it. 



300 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

"Very well, then," Fate steps in and says, "since 
you have accommodated yourself to this, you shall be 
deprived of the power of working." 

I can neither study, nor work on my picture, nor do 
anything else. Here is a delay of a whole winter. — I, 
who had put all my life into my work. Only those 
who have been situated as I am can understand me. 

Wednesday, December 7. — What exasperates me 
most is my illness; yesterday the horrible sub-Potain, 
who comes to see me once a day, as the great man can 
only put himself out twice a week to do so — the sub- 
Potain asked me, as it were casually, if I were pre- 
paring for my journey. 

Their South! The bare idea of it puts me in a 
rage! At dinner I could not eat for thinking of it, 
and if Julian had not come I should have cried all 
the evening with rage. 

Well, then, so much the worse! But I will not go 
to their South. 

Friday, December 9. — There is a drawing of Bres- 
lau's in the Vie Moderne. If I had not cried so 
much I might have been able to make use of my time 
while I am ill in making rough draughts and sketches ; 
but my hands are still trembling. 

The lung is now free from the congestion, but the 
temperature is still 38 degrees. I am playing but a 
sorry part, however, in giving you all these details. 

I feel that there is no hope for me, and I dare not 
ask a question lest I should hear of Breslau's next 
success. 

Ah, my God, hear me, grant me strength, have pity 
upon me ! 

Thursday, December 15. — Here are four weeks and 
two days that I have been ill. When the sub-Potain 
came I made a scene by beginning to cry. He did 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 301 

not know what course to pursue in order to quiet 
me; for abandoning the subterfuges, nonsensical ex- 
cuses, and other delightful things with which I am 
in the habit of regaling him, I began to utter com- 
plaints and to shed genuine tears, my hair falling 
loose about my shoulders the while. I stammered my 
infantile complaints to him in the language of a child. 
And to think that I did it all in cold blood, and that 
I did not mean a word of what I said! And so it 
is with me when I take part in a real play — I grow 
pale in earnest, and I shed genuine tears; in short, 
I think I should make a magnificent actress; but for 
the present all I can do is to cough, and I have scarcely 
even breath enough left me for that. 

Monsieur my father arrived this morning. Every- 
thing goes on very well, with the exception of Paul's 
poor wife, who is quite disillusioned, seeing an in- 
difference toward her on his part that is little short 
of hostility. As for me I am all that is right in re- 
gard to her ; I gave her a very beautiful emerald given 
me by mamma, and for which I have no use. 

I was a little sorry for it afterward: I might have 
given it to Dina, who adores jewels; but there is no 
help for it now. 

I do not say that papa is irritating ; on the contrary,, 
he resembles me a little, physically as well as mentally 
(this is a compliment to him), but he will never be 
able to understand me. 

Imagine that he has conceived the project of taking 
us to our country to spend Easter. 

No, it is too much; it is too great a want of con- 
sideration, in the present state of my health of taking 
me to Russia in February or March! I leave it to 
your own judgment. But let that pass — not to speak 
of all the rest! Ah, no, I who refused to go South! 
No, no, no! Let us speak no more of it, decidedly 
not. 



302 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

Sunday, December 18. — I have been telling my 
troubles to Julian; and after doing his best to con- 
sole me, he advised me to sketch every day whatever 
I saw that chanced to strike me. What is there to 
strike me? What do you suppose I should find to 
strike me in the surroundings amidst which I live? 
Breslau is poor, but she lives in an eminently artistic 
sphere; Marie's best friend is a musician; Schoeppi, 
although of the people, is original; and there is Sara 
Purser, artiste and philosopher, with whom one may 
hold discussions on the philosophy of Kant, on life, 
on the ego, and on death, that stimulate thought, and 
that impress upon the mind what one has heard or 
read — everything is artistic, even to the neighborhood 
in which she lives, Les Ternes. And the neighbor- 
hood in which I live, so clean, so regular, where not 
a sign of poverty is to be seen, not a tree that is not 
trimmed, not a street that is not straight. Do I, then, 
complain of my fate? No, but I wish to say that 
easy circumstances tend to prevent the development 
of artistic talent, and that environment in which one 
lives is half the individual. 

Wednesday, December 21. — To-day I went out for 
a drive ! But wrapped in furs, the carriage-windows 
closed, and a bear-skin around my feet. Potain said 
this morning that I might go out if the wind ceased, 
and if I took precautions. The weather is splendid 
— and as for precautions! 

But that is not the question ; it is Breslau "that will 
not let go her prey." My picture for the Salon is 
accepted. What shall I have to show beside her pic- 
ture this summer? 

This girl is a power in my life; there are others, 
it is true; but she and I are of the same cage, not 
to say of the same nest, and I divined her genius 
from the beginning, and announced it to you, little 



i88i.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 303 

as I then knew of art. I despise myself; I refuse 
to believe that I have any talent ; I cannot understand 
why Julian and Tony should speak of me as they 
do; I am nothing; I have nothing in me. Compared 
with Breslau I seem to myself like a thin and fragile 
pasteboard box compared to a massive and richly 
carved oaken casket. I despair of myself, and so 
convinced am I of my worthlessness that if I were 
to say what I think to the masters I should convert 
them to my opinion. 

But I will go forward blindly, all the same, my 
hands stretched out before me, groping for the light, 
ready to be engulfed if it must be so. 

Thursday, December 29. — It is a week since I have 
written anything in my diary; this will show you 
that my glorious existence has been divided between 
work and society. There is nothing new; and yet 
there is, for I am well and I go out as usual. I went 
on Saturday to have some new gowns fitted, to the 
Bois, and to Julian's, with mamma and Dina. And 
on Sunday I went to church, so that they may not 
say I am at the point of death, as the charming Bertha 
tells every one. 

On the contrary I have gained new life; my arms, 
that were so thin ten days ago, are now rounded ; that 
is to say, that I am much better than I was before 
my illness. 

A week more of this and I shall have to stop grow- 
ing fat; I shall be just right then; for I do not wish 
to have again the large hips I had three years ago. 
Julian, who came to see me last night, thinks my 
figure much better as it is now. We laughed all the 
evening. I am painting the portrait of Paul's wife. 
Yesterday I had so far recovered my energy that I 
wanted to paint, all at once, the portraits of Dina, 
Nini, and Irma. 



304 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1881. 

Friday, December 30. — They have spent the whole 
day here quarreling. In order to recover my tran- 
quillity I went to see Tony, taking with me the sketch 
of the portrait of Paul's wife to show him. He 
thought it very original in treatment and well begun. 
The sympathetic Tony seemed delighted at seeing me 
in good health again. After chatting gaily together 
on different matters we touched on the serious sub- 
ject of art, speaking of Breslau in connection with 
it, among other things. "Her picture is certainly very 
good," he said ; "she is richly endowed." 

Ah, it would be impossible to transcribe my feel- 
ings here — to describe the fever, the fire, that con- 
sumes me. Oh, I must work day and night, without 
ceasing, to produce something that shall have merit! 
True, he told me that the day I wished I might pro- 
duce a picture equal to any of hers; true, he thinks 
I have as much talent as she has, but I am ready to 
weep, to die, to hide myself anywhere — where I might 
be able — But would I be able? Ah, Tony has con- 
fidence in me, but I have no confidence in myself. I 
am consumed by the desire to accomplish something, 
and I know my own powe-rlessness — But here I must 
stop. As my readers no doubt take me literally, they 
might believe what I say to be true — whereas I only 
say these things in the hope of being contradicted. 

Ah, heavens! I spend my time writing down all 
this, and selecting words in which to describe the 
annoyances I suffer, while, Breslau, wiser than I, 
spends hers drawing and painting. 



i882.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 305 



1882. 

Monday, January 2. — The thing I take most delight 
in is my painting; I do not feel myself worthy of 
saying, "my art." In order to speak of art we must 
first have won a name; otherwise one has the air 
of an amateur, who deserves only to be laughed at. 

Wednesday, January 4. — Julian spent the evening 
rallying me on my liking for Tony, and on his for 
me. At midnight we took chocolate. Dina was very 
amiable. 

I always dress with particular care, and in an en- 
tirely different fashion from other times, when I go 
among artists — in long gowns, and flowing draperies; 
in society my waist would not be found sufficiently 
slender nor my gown sufficiently fashionable; so that 
all my pretty fancies — too extravagant for the world 
of society — will serve me in my ministry of the Fine 
Arts; I still cherish the dream of having a salon that 
shall be frequented by every one of note. 

Friday, January 6. — Art, even in the case of the 
humblest of its votaries, elevates the soul, and makes 
one superior in some degree to those who are not 
of the sacred fraternity. 

Wednesday, January 11. — To-morrow, our New 
Year's eve, we give a soiree; they have been making 
preparations for it for the last week; more than two 
hundred and fifty invitations have been sent out, for 
a great many of our friends have made requests for 
them. As no one is receiving yet, this will be an 
event, and I think we shall have some very chic 
people. In short, it will be a pleasant affair. Etincelle 



306 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

makes allusion to it in her notes in Figaro, adding 
an eulogy of Mile. Marie, who is beautiful and an 
artist, etc., etc. But even if she had said nothing of 
all this, I should still regard her as the most charm- 
ing of ugly people; there are fifty women I know 
who are not so attractive as she is, and then she bears 
the undefinable Parisian stamp, as well as the stamp 
of a person of note. Observe well what I say, for 
it is profoundly true — all people of note, whether they 
be men, women, or children, young or old, have a 
certain tone in the voice, a certain air, which is the 
same among them all, and which I will call the family 
likeness of persons of celebrity. 

We are to have the two Coquelins. The elder 
Coquelin came yesterday to inspect the rooms, and to 

consult with us respecting the pieces. G was 

present, and he disgusted me with the airs he gave 
himself of being a connoisseur — a little more and he 
would have taken it upon himself to advise Coquelin, 
who is very agreeable, by the way, a very good fel- 
low, who does not make you feel, the moment you 
speak to him, that sort of embarrassment which so 
many people experience in the presence of any one 
of note. 

Friday, January 13. — The two Coquelins were 
superb; and the rooms presented a charming appear- 
ance; there were a number of pretty women present 
— the enchanting trio, the Marquise de Reverseaux, 
the daughter of Janvier de la Motte, Mme. Thouvenel 
and Mme. de Joly, the Countess de Kessler, — in 
short, almost all the women were pretty, and, in the 
words of Tony (who did not come, however, nor 

did Julian), "very desirable guests." Mme. G 

was enchanted, and finished the evening by dancing 
with Count Plater. 

The reception was preceded by a dinner. 



i882.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 307 

As for artists, the brother of Bastien-Lepage is 
still absent; so he was not with us (on Thursday we 
are to visit the real Bastien-Lepage) ; there was 
George Bertrand, who exhibited last year an admir- 
able and touching picture called Le Drapeau. I 
alluded to it in a notice, and he wrote me a few 
amiable words in return. I sent him an invitation 
signed "Pauline Orell." It was Pollack who pre- 
sented him to me. It was very amusing — he paid me 
a great many fine compliments, for, although I wished 
to hide them, Dina showed some of my studies to 
such of our guests as she thought had a right to see 
them. Carrier-Belleuse succumbed to the power of 
my eyes, and toward the end of the evening grew 
quite tender and sentimental. 

Here is a man who is capable of falling very much 
in love; perhaps he has done so already; but 

We had supper at three o'clock; Gabriel sat on 
my right; about sixty persons had remained. Nini 
was charming, and looked very pretty: her shoulders 
were dazzling, and she wore an exquisite gown, as 
did Dina, mamma, and my aunt. I wore a gown 
made by Doucet and myself in partnership, an almost 
faithful reproduction of Greuze's Cruche Cassee. I 
wore my hair loose in front and fastened in a knot 
on the back of the head, high above the neck. A long 
chain of Bengal roses with loose leaves lost itself 
among the folds of the short skirt, which was of 
silk mull, pleated; the bodice was of satin, laced in 
front, and very long, with a handkerchief crossed 
over the breast. There was a second skirt of mull, 
turned up with satin, open in front, and gathered up 
behind, forming panniers, of which one was covered 
with roses. I looked charming. The odious sub- 
Potain followed me like a shadow so as to catch me 
if I should attempt to dance. 



308 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

Sunday, January 13. — There was a long article of 
Etincelle's about our soiree, but, as we had expected 
this article, mamma and my aunt were not satisfied 
with it. She compares me to the Cruche Cassee, and 
they are afraid that this may be taken in Poltava as 
an insult. They are too stupid! The article is very 
good, only that, as she had said two days ago that 
I was one of the prettiest women of the Russian 
Empire, and she contents herself this time with de- 
scribing my gown, I am rather disappointed. 

I am wrapped up in my art. I think I caught the 
sacred fire in Spain at the same time that I caught 
the pleurisy. From being a student I now begin to 
be an artist. This sudden influx of power puts me 
beside myself with joy. I sketch future pictures; 
I dream of painting an Ophelia. Potain has promised 
to take me to Saint-Anne to study the faces of the 
mad women there, and then I am full of the idea 
of painting an old man, an Arab, sitting down sing- 
ing to the accompaniment of a kind of guitar; and 
I am thinking also of a large affair for the coming 
Salon — a view of the Carnival ; but for this it would 
be necessary that I should go to Nice — to Naples first 
for the Carnival, and then to Nice, where I have 
my villa, to paint it in the open air. I say all this, and 
yet I wish to remain here. 

Saturday, January 21. — Madame C came to 

take me to see Bastien-Lepage. We found there two 
or three American women, and the little Bastien- 
Lepage himself ; he is very small, very fair, wears his 
hair a la Bretonne* has a retrousse nose and the 
beard of a youth. I was altogether taken aback. I 
adore his painting, but it is impossible to regard him 
with the respect due to a master. You want to treat 
him as a comrade, and his paintings are there to fill 
* Cut square across the forehead. 



i882.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 309 

you with admiration, astonishment, and envy. There 
are four or five of them, all life-size, and painted 
from nature. They are admirable ; one of them repre- 
sents a little girl of eight or ten guarding some cows 
in a field; the tree stripped of its foliage, and the 
cow resting under its branches, are touchingly poetic ; 
the eyes of the little girl have a look of childlike 
dreaminess in them — the dreaminess of one who lives 
in companionship with nature — that it would be im- 
possible to describe. He has the air of a good little 
man who is very well satisfied with himself — this 
Bastien. 

I returned home in time to help mamma to receive 
a number of visitors. This is what it is to give re- 
ceptions in Paris, you see, as one of our friends says. 

Saturday, January 22. — For the time being I am 
full of the idea of the Carnival; I am making sketches 
for it in charcoal. If I only had the genius, it would 
be delightful to paint it. 

Monday, January 30. — It is decided that we are to 
go to the Villa Gery at Nice. I spent a delightful 
day on Saturday. Bastien, whom I had seen the 
evening before at the ball given at the Continental 
Hotel for the benefit of the Breton life-savers, and 
presided over by the Queen, came to see me and re- 
mained more than an hour. I showed him some things 
of mine, and he gave me his opinion respecting them 
with a flattering severity. And then he said I was 
marvelously gifted. And it did not seem as if this 
was a compliment merely. For the moment I was 
so overcome with joy that I was on the point of 
taking the good man's face between my hands, and 
kissing him. 

I am very well pleased, however, to have heard 
his opinion. He gives me the same advice as Tony 



310 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

and Julian, and says the very same things. And then 
is he not a pupil of Cabanel? Every artist has his 
own peculiar temperament, but as far as the grammar 
of the art is concerned, it is necessary to learn it 
from a master. Neither Bastien nor any one else 
can communicate his gifts to another. Nothing can 
be learned but what may be taught ; the rest depends 
upon one's-self. 

Mme. de Peronny (Etincelle) came to-day, and I 
spent a delightful quarter of an hour in the company 
of this superior woman and great artist, first seated 
before the fire, and afterward under the palm. I 
shall say nothing of our other visitors, whom I left 
in the official drawing-room with mamma. 

Nice. — We left Paris at eight in the evening, Paul, 
Dina, I, Nini, Rosalie, Basili and Coco. The Villa 
Gery is all that we could desire, and is situated in the 
open country, only ten minutes' distance from the 
Promenade des Anglais ; it has gardens and a terrace, 
and is a large and comfortable house. 

We found everything ready to receive us; and M. 
Picoux, the agent, had bouquets for each of us. 

I took a trip on the tramway this evening that 
delighted me ; there was, in what I saw, a blending of 
the Italian and the French gayety, but without any of 
the vulgarity that is to be met with among the popu- 
lace of Paris. As I wrote to Julian, life here is as 
comfortable as it is in Paris, and as picturesque as 
it is in Granada. Within five yards of the Promenade 
des Anglais are to be found so many different cos- 
tumes, so many different types of humanity, and all 
so picturesque! Why go to Spain? Oh, the South! 
Oh, Nice! Oh, the Mediterranean! Oh, my be- 
loved country, through which I have suffered so 
much! Oh, my earliest joys, and my profoundest 
griefs! Oh, my childhood, my ambitious dreams! 



i882.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 311 

Try how I will, those days will always form an 
epoch in my existence, and side by side with the 
recollection of the sufferings that darkened my early 
youth will remain the recollection of its joys — joys 
that will remain forever the sweetest flowers of 
memory. 

Tuesday, February 7. — I am boiling over with rage. 
Wolff has devoted a dozen lines — as nattering as they 
could possibly be — to Breslau. 

But after all I am not to blame ; one does what one 
can. She has nothing to occupy her attention but 
her art; while I invent new fashions for my gowns, 
I devise new ways of arranging draperies, I think 
of how to be revenged on the society of Nice. I 
do not say that I should have her talent even if I 
were to do as she does; she obeys the instincts of her 
nature, I those of mine. But my hands are tied. The 
trouble is that I am so convinced of my powerlessness 
as to be tempted at times to give it all up. Julian 
says I might do as well as she does if I wished. If 
I wished — but in order to have the wish it is nec- 
essary to have the power. Those who have succeeded 
because they willed to succeed were sustained by a 
secret strength which is wanting in me. And only 
to think that at times I have not only faith in my 
future power to succeed, but that I feel burn within 
me the sacred fire of genius! Oh, misery! 

But here, at least, no one is to blame, and that is 
less maddening. There is nothing more horrible than 
to have to say to one's-self, "If it were not for this 
or for that, I should have succeeded, perhaps." I 
know that I do all I can, and yet I have accomplished 
nothing. 

O my God, grant that I may deceive myself, and 
that the feeling I now have of my mediocrity may 
be a mistaken one. 



312 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

Friday, February 10. — I have received so rude a 
blow that it has caused me to spend three very un- 
happy days. 

I shall not now paint my large picture. I will 
paint simpler things — things more within the com- 
pass of my powers — studies. I have taken a solemn 
resolution not to waste another moment, and not to 
paint another stroke without some purpose. I shall 
concentrate my powers. Bastien has advised me to do 
this, and so have Julian and the fortunate Breslau. 
Yes, fortunate, indeed; to be as fortunate as she is 
I would give, without a moment's hesitation, all that 
people call my happiness and my wealth — a hundred 
thousand francs to have independence and to have 
talent: when one has these, one has everything. 

But how fortunate she is, this girl! It makes me 
so unhappy every time I think of that article of 
Wolff's. Yet it is not what is called envy that makes 
me feel this. I have not the heart to analyze this 
feeling and to select words in which to describe it. 

Monday, February 13. — I am making sketches in 
water-colors for the first time! Every moment of 
the day is occupied, and I have decided on a subject 
for my picture, for, in addition to the smaller things, 
I must take back a large study to Julian. It is three 
little boys standing near a gateway: that seems to 
me an interesting subject, and one that admits of 
realistic treatment. The blow I received in Wolff's 
article has done me good. I was for the moment 
crushed, annihilated, and the reaction from this feel- 
ing has given me the power to understand things in 
art that previously to that had tormented me, for 
while I suspected their existence, I could not discover 
them. This has compelled me to make salutary exer- 
tions. I begin too, to understand now what I used 
to read respecting the trials and struggles of artists. 



i882.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 313 

I used to laugh at all this as romantic stories that 
had no foundation. That famous will of Breslau — 
I have called it to my aid, and I see that it is neces- 
sary to make great efforts in order to obtain the 
success that one fancies has dropped down from the 
skies. The thing is that I have made no real effort 
up to the present. The extreme facility with which 
I worked has spoiled me. Breslau obtains good re- 
sults, but only after working hard for them; as for 
me, when success does not come at once, and without 
effort, I can do nothing. I must conquer this feel- 
ing. Thus, in sketching a picture, in making charcoal 
sketches, for instance, I found it necessary to make 
great efforts, in order to attain to the desired purity 
of outline, and I have succeeded in accomplishing 
things of which I had before thought myself inca- 
pable, and which I thought others had accomplished 
by means of tricks, of sorcery almost, so difficult is 
it to concede to others the possession of those quali- 
ties in which we ourselves are lacking. 

Wednesday, February 15. — It is only by degrees 
that we learn to see things as they really are. 
Formerly all that I could see in a picture was the 
subject and the composition, and now — ah ! if I could 
only copy what I see, I should produce something 
great. I see the landscape, I see, and I love the 
landscape, the water, the air, the coloring — the 
coloring ! 

Monday, February 27. — After a thousand hesita- 
tions and doubts I have destroyed my canvas; the 
boys would not pose ; attributing my want of success 
in making them do so to my own incapacity, I tried 
again and again, and at last — it was happily settled. 
The frightful little monsters moved about, and 
laughed and cried and fought with each other — I 



314 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF [1882, 

shall simply make a study of them; to make a picture 
would be too much torture. 

Paris, Thursday, April 20. — Well, it is not now as 
it was when I came back from Spain. I am not 
enchanted to see Paris again, I am only pleased. 
Besides, I am so preoccupied about my painting that 
I scarcely know what my feelings are. I tremble 
to think what will be said of it, and I am completely 
crushed by the thought of Breslau, who is treated 
by the public as if she were already a successful 
artist. I went to see Julian yesterday (we have been 
in Paris since yesterday morning), and he treats me 
no longer as if I were making a serious pursuit of 
painting. "Brilliant, yes," he says, "but no depth, no 
power of will." He had hoped for, he had expected, 
something better. All this, told me in the course of 
our conversation, wounded me deeply. I shall wait 
until he sees what I painted at Nice, but I no longer 
expect anything good. 

Saturday, April 22. — No, what was necessary to 
me in order that I should continue to live, was genius. 
I can never be happy in the same way as other people 
are. To be loved and to be famous, as Balzac says, 
this is to be happy! And to be loved is only the 
natural consequence of being famous. Breslau, who 
is thin, cross eyed, and haggard, although her face 
is an interesting one, can never exercise any feminine 
attraction except through her genius, while, if I had 
her talent, I should be superior to any woman in 
Paris. But that must come. In the wild desire that 
it should come, I seem to see a hope that it will. 

These journeys, these interruptions to my work, the 
lack of advice and encouragement — they are ruinous. 
One looks as if one had come back from China, one 
knows nothing of what is going on. 



I882.J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 315 

Ah! after all, I think there is nothing I love like 
painting; that must, as I believe, procure me every 
other happiness ! Mistaken vocation, mistaken talent, 
mistaken hopes! And yet I slander myself. I went 
to the Louvre this morning. When one sees as 
clearly as I do, one ought to be able to interpret what 
one sees. Formerly I had the self-confidence of 
ignorance, but for some time past I have been able 
to see things in art that I had never seen before. 
This morning it was Paul Veronese, who appeared 
to me in all his splendor, in all his glory. What in- 
comparable richness of coloring! How explain the 
fact that these glorious paintings have seemed to me 
until now only large, uninteresting pictures, dull in 
coloring and flat in execution! The beauties to 
which my eyes were before sealed I can now appre- 
ciate. The celebrated paintings that I admired before 
only out of regard for the opinion of others, now 
delight me and hold me spellbound. I feel all the 
delicate gradations in the coloring; I appreciate color, 
in short. 

A landscape by Ruysdael compelled me to return 
to look at it a second time. A few months ago I could 
see in it nothing of what I saw there this morning 
—atmosphere, space! In short, it is not painting, it 
is nature itself. Well, it is because my eyes have 
been practiced that I now perceive these beauties that 
I could not see before. And is it not possible for 
the same thing to happen with the hand? 

Sunday, April 23. — I have just been looking over 
the studies I made at Nice. The sole thought that 
they might find something to admire in them makes 
a shiver run down my back. For Tony, Julian, and 
Bastien appear to me themselves so insignificant com- 
pared to the immense effect their words are capable 
of producing on me! 



316 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

I have as yet formed no plans for the future. On 
Monday I shall go to the studio to get into the habit 
of regular work again. 

The sky is gray and stormy ; it rains, and a piercing 
wind is blowing; the state of the elements is in 
harmony with the condition of my mind; what I feel 
then is due to a physical impression merely. 

But there was something else I wanted to write 
about — a few reflections concerning love suggested by 
something I read this morning. 

Love — this is the inexhaustible subject. To allow 
yourself to be loved by a man to whom you should 
be so superior that he would regard you as a goddess 
descended from the skies — this would have a certain 
charm. To know that your glance would diffuse hap- 
piness around — there is a benevolent side to this that 
is flattering to the generous part of one's nature. 

Tuesday, April 25. — My own anxiety was sufficient, 
without seeing around me the anxious countenances 
of my family, who were all looking at me to see if 
I betrayed emotion. Well, to sum up, this is what 
Tony has said: The costume of Dina very good, 
very good; the man standing on the sea-shore very 
good also; the head of Therese not altogether bad. 
The tones of the landscape, however, do not harmonize 
with the costumes; the smaller landscape is very 
good; the old man correct in drawing, but not suffi- 
ciently simple, and not sufficiently something else — 
in fine, there is something good in it. "Well," you 
will say, "you ought to be satisfied." Ah ! in addition 
to all this he said I ought to follow a conscientious 
course of study, and that he would pay particular 
attention to my progress; he also said that he was 
at my disposal whenever I chose to send for him. 

I ought to be satisfied — but no, I am almost 
crushed. This was not enough; he should have said 



i882.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 317 

to me: "Good, this time you have succeeded; this 
is good; your execution is as good as Breslau's, and 
your other qualities are superior to hers." 

Nothing less than these words would have satisfied 
me; or even sufficed to take me out of the despair in 
which I have been plunged, on account of my paint- 
ing, for more than a year past. Why should I not 
be satisfied with all these "goods"? — when I still keep 
in my memory the "very good" he bestowed on Bres- 
lau for a little picture she made in Brittany two 
years ago. 

Yet when he said the same words to me regarding 
the little picture I did at Nice, it seemed to me as 
if they no longer possessed the same value. And 
why? Before my departure for Nice he said to me 
that Breslau's "Fisher Girl" was "very good," and 
now that this same "Fisher Girl" has been accepted, 
receiving a number 3, he says it is "not bad," only. In 
short, I am not satisfied. And why? In the first 
place, because my family based such extravagant 
hopes on these few studies of mine that only the 
most extravagant praises could satisfy them ; and then 
— nerves, the effects of the spring weather. When- 
ever I am over-excited, as I am now, I feel a burning 
sensation in my arms, just above the elbow ; it is very 
curious; explain to me, ye learned doctors, what this 
means. 

Saturday, April 29. — I am not a painter; I learned 
drawing, as I learn everything, with facility — that is 
all. Yet when I was a child of three I used to draw 
profiles with chalk on the whist-tables in the country, 
and afterward, and always. One would swear it was 
a true vocation — and yet you see ! But there is noth- 
ing more to be said, only so much time to be lived 
through; my arms fall down powerless by my sides. 
And after all, what is it that has happened ? Nothing. 



318 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

Breslau has been studying much longer than I — almost 
twice as long. Admitting, then, that I am as gifted 
as she, things have followed their natural course; I 
have been painting for three years, while she has 
been painting for five. 

Sunday, April 30. — Since morning I have been 
watching the varnishing of the pictures, with Ville- 
vielle, Alice, and Webb. I was in black and looked 
very well. I was amused to see how many people 
I know in Paris. Carolus Duran came to speak to 
me — this man is fascinating. Breslau's picture is 
hung very high, and produces a deplorable effect. 
I was so uneasy on account of her possible success 
that this was a great consolation. I do not deny it. 
Her friends came to me in distress, to learn my 
opinion, and I said that I did not think the picture 
a very good one, but that they should have given her 
a better place. 

The conclusion to this brilliant day was a conver- 
sation with Julian, during which he reproached me 
with wasting my energies, with not justifying the 
magnificent promise I had given, etc. In short, he 
thinks I have gone beyond my depth; so do I, and 
we are going to see if I cannot be brought into safe 
waters again. I told him I was aware of this de- 
plorable condition of things, that it made me des- 
perate, and that I thought all was over with me; he 
reminds me of the clever things I have done, and says 
that a sketch of mine, which he has in his possession, 
makes every one stop to look at it, and so on. Ah, 
my God, take me out of this state of misery! God 
had been good to me in not suffering me to be killed 
outright by Breslau — at least to-day. In short, I 
know not how to express my thought that it may not 
seem a base one. If her picture had been what I 
expected it would be, that would have been my death 



i882.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 319 

— in the pitiable condition in which my work is at 
present. I have not for a single instant wished that 
it might be bad — that would be ignoble, but I trem- 
bled lest she should meet with a decided success. I 
felt so strong an emotion on opening the newspapers 
that perhaps God took pity on me. 

Tuesday, May 9. — Tony and Julian dined with us 
this evening. I wore a fantastic costume, and we 
sat chatting till half -past eleven. Julian was very 
amusing, after the champagne, and Tony very amiable, 
very abstemious, very tranquil, with his fine head and 
his languid air. One would like to stir to its inmost 
depths this tender and melancholy soul where all is 
calm and still. I cannot imagine this professor as 
indulging in any strong emotion. He is dispassionate 
and logical, and, where matters of the heart are in 
question, he will quietly demonstrate their causes, and 
their progress, as if he were explaining the qualities 
of a painting. In a word, and to sum up, as he says, 
he is charming. 

The portrait of a young girl, by Sargent, haunts 
me; it is ravishing. It is an exquisite piece of work, 
worthy of a place beside the paintings of Vandyke 
and Velasquez. 

Saturday, May 20. — Ah, how discouraged I am! 
What have I accomplished since I came to Paris? I 
am no longer even eccentric. And in Italy, what did 
I accomplish? Once I allowed myself to be secretly 

kissed by that stupid A . Well, and afterward? 

Ah, it disgusts me to think of it! Yet not a few 
young girls have done the same thing, and do it 
every day, and no one speaks ill of them for it. I 
declare that when I hear, as I have heard just now, 
of the remarks people make about us, and especially 



320 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

about me, so strong is the emotion I feel that it 
overwhelms me. 

We went yesterday to the Salon with E , the 

brother of Bastien, and Beaumetz. Bastien-Lepage 
is going to paint a picture representing a little peasant- 
boy looking at a rainbow. It will be sublime — you 
may take my word for it. What genius, what genius ! 

Monday, May 22. — I am convinced that I shall 
never love any one — except one ; and he, it is probable, 
will never love me. Julian is right — the best way 
to revenge myself would be by conquering a brilliant 
position in the world — by marrying some man of note 
who is rich as well as famous. That would be mag- 
nificent ! Or to develop a genius like that of Bastien- 
Lepage, that would make all Paris turn round to 
look at me when I pass by. Truly this is charming! 
I talk as if this might happen to me, who have never 
had anything but misfortune all my life. Oh, my 
God, my God! grant me my revenge! I will be so 
compassionate to those who suffer! 

Thursday, May 25. — We went this morning to see 
Carolus Duran. What a charming and admirable be- 
ing he is! People are disposed to laugh at him be- 
cause he can do a little of everything. He shoots 
well, he rides, he dances, he plays the piano, the organ, 
and the guitar, and he sings. They say he dances 
badly, but as for the other things, he does them with 
inimitable grace. He fancies himself a Spaniard, and 
a Velasquez. His appearance is very attractive, his 
conversation interesting, and there is in his whole 
air something so amiable, so frank, and so self-satis- 
fied, he has so evident an enjoyment in the admira- 
tion of his own proper person, that one cannot bear 
him ill-will for it — on the contrary ; and if one smiles 
at him occasionally, one is none the less charmed by 



i882.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 321 

him, especially when one thinks of those one has to 
put up with, who do not possess a quarter of his 
merits. 

He takes himself altogether au serieux; and which 
of us, in his place, would not have his head a little 
turned ? 

Sunday, May 28. — The Duchess of Fitz- James 
came to-day to say that she would present us this 
evening to her daughter-in-law. There was to be a 
ball. Mamma declares that no one could be more 
amiable than this lady. They see each other quite 
often, but just how often I cannot say. We agreed 
to call for her and go together. 
^Everything was perfect; the society was of the 
best ; the young girls looked fresh and charming ; the 
gowns were beautiful. The old Duchess has any 
number of nephews and nieces and grandchildren. 
The persons whose names I heard mentioned are 
among the best known and the most aristocratic in 
Paris, and those I met there all distinguished. For 
my part, delighted as I was to find myself in this 
salon, I could not get the thought of a pastel I had 
finished this morning out of my head, so troubled was 
I by the remembrance of its defects. 

And then one cannot go into society in this way — 
I should need a couple of months, at least, to accus- 
tom myself to it. But do you think that in my 
heart I find it entertaining? I find it stupid,, hollow, 
dull! And to think that there are people who live 
only for this! As for me, I should like to go out 
occasionally, just enough to keep up an interest in 
what is going on in the world of fashion; but for 
relaxation only, as distinguished men go; so as not 
to seem like a Hottentot, or an inhabitant of the 
moon. 



322 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

Monday, May 29. — Yesterday we went to the Bois 
with Adeline, who congratulated us on being launched 
into the most aristocratic society of Paris, and to- 
day we visit the Queen, the two Duchesses of Fitz- 
James, the Countess of Turenne, Mme. de Briey, and, 
finally, the American. 

The question that chiefly occupies my attention now 
is the subject of my picture for next year's Salon. 
The subject I should prefer, I feel profoundly; my 
heart and mind are alike captivated by it, and it is 
one that I have thought of for nearly two years past. 
It is the moment when Joseph of Arimathea has 
placed the body of Jesus in the tomb, and the stone 
has been rolled before it; the people have departed, 
the night is falling, and Mary Magdalen and the other 
Mary remain alone, seated before the mouth of the 
sepulchre. 

Tuesday, June 20. — Well, there is nothing new to 
record; a few visits exchanged, and my painting — 
and Spain. Ah, Spain! It is a work of Theophile 
Gautier that has been the cause of this. Can it be 
possible that I have been in Toledo, Burgos, Cordova, 
Seville, Granada? Granada! What! Have I indeed 
been in all those cities, only to pronounce the names 
of which is to feel one's-self ennobled? Well, I have 
caught the infection: I must return there! I must 
see those wonders once more! I must return there 
alone, or with congenial companions. I have suffered 
enough already through the company of my family 
there. O Poetry! O Art! Ah, how short is life! 
And how unfortunate we are that it should be so 
short ! 

Wednesday, June 21. — I have effaced everything in 
my picture, and even disposed of the canvas, so as 
not to have it before my eyes! This is killing me. 



i882.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 323 

O Art ! I shall never attain to a mastery of it. But, 
as soon as one destroys what one is dissatisfied with, 
one feels consoled, free, and ready to begin again. 
The studio in which I am painting was lent to Mile. 
Loshooths by an American named Chadwick, who 
returned to-day, and we have restored his temple to 
him. 



Friday, June 23. — At five o'clock L , Dina, and 

I went to see Emile Bastien, who is to sit for me. 

I shall paint with the palette of the Bastien, with 
his colors, his brushes, in his studio, and with his 
brother for a model. 

Well, it is a dream, a piece of childishness, a silly 
fancy! The little Swedish girl took his palette in 
her hands, and I took away some of the paint he 
had used as a souvenir; my hand trembled as I did 
so, and we both laughed. 

Saturday, June 24. — It is decided that we are to 
take the house in the Rue Ampere. In the basement 
are the kitchen and a billiard-room. The ground- 
floor, to which one ascends by a flight of ten steps, 
has a vestibule; then there is a pretty glass door 
opening on an antechamber, from which the staircase 
to the other storeys ascends; to the right is a room 
which they have converted into a parlor by making 
an entrance from it into a little chamber which opens 
on the garden; a dining-room, and a courtyard which 
carriages can enter, and into which one descends by 
steps from the drawing-room, and dining-room. 

On the first story there are five bed-rooms, with 
dressing-rooms adjoining, and a hall, with baths. As 
for the second story it belongs to me, and consists 
of an antechamber, two bedrooms, a library, a studio, 
and a store-room. The studio and the library open 



324 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

into each other, forming a large apartment, nearly 
thirty-six feet long, and twenty-one feet wide. 

The light is superb, entering on three sides, as well 
as from above. In short, for a hired house there 
could be nothing that would suit me better. It is 
No. 30 Rue Ampere, on the corner of the Rue 
Bremontier, and may be seen from the Avenue de 
Villiers. 

Wednesday, July 12. — I am making preparations to 
begin my famous picture, which will be an extremely 
difficult piece of work. I must select a landscape 
like the one I have pictured to myself. And the tomb 
hewn out of the rock — I should like to paint it near 
Paris — at Capri, for instance, which is altogether 
Eastern; but it would be necessary to copy a real 
tomb, such as there must be many of in Algeria, and 
still more in Jerusalem — any Jewish sepulchre hewn 
out of the rock. And the models? Oh, there must 
be magnificent ones to be found there — and with the 
original costumes. Julian says this is a piece of folly. 
He can understand, he says, how a great artist — one 
who is master of his art — should go to paint his pic- 
ture on the scene; he seeks the only thing in which 
he is lacking, a knowledge of the real object he is 
to copy; but I who am deficient in so many things! 
Well, it seems to me it is just for that reason that 
I should paint my picture on the scene, since the only 
success I can hope for is through my fidelity to 
nature. Why should I, who have no other, or almost 
no other, advantage, deny myself this one ? 

Ah, if I could only succeed in doing it well! 

And shall I not be able to succeed, since success 
depends upon myself? It is to be the work of my 
hand, and is not my will — ardent, tenacious, inflexible 
— sufficient to make it what I wish it to be? The 
passionate, wild desire I cherish to communicate to 






lit lit 




Jean and Jacques 



i882.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 325 

others the emotion I myself feel, will not that be 
enough? How can I doubt it? It is something that 
fills my mind, my heart, my soul, my eyes, and shall 
I not triumph over mere material difficulties? I feel 
myself capable of accomplishing all things. The only 
thing to be feared is that I should fall ill ; I shall pray 
to God every day that this may not happen. 

What! shall my hand be unable to execute what 
my brain has conceived ? Not so ! 

Ah, my God, on my knees I implore Thee not to 
deny me this happiness ! It is in all humility, prostrate 
in the dust before Thee, that I implore Thee — not 
to aid me — but only to deign to suffer me to work 
without having too many obstacles placed in my path. 

Tuesday, August 8. — My thoughts have been full 
of Daudet's "Rois en Exil." I had read the book 
before, but it is one that will bear a second reading. 
There are delightful passages in it, and it is marked 
by a fineness of analysis, a lucidity of expression, that 
captivates me, as well as by a pathos that brings tears 
to the eyes. 

Friday, August 18. — We did not find Bastien at 
home. I left a line for him, after glancing over the 
things he had brought with him from London. There 
is a little messenger-boy leaning against a lamp-post 
in the street ; you can almost hear the noise of the 
vehicles as they pass. The background is not yet 
finished, but the figure! — Ah, what a man! 

What idiots are they who say he excels only in 
execution! He is an original, a powerful artist; he 
is a poet; he is a philosopher; other artists are mere 
workmen compared to him; he is grand, as nature 
is, as life is. The other day Tony Robert-Fleury was 
obliged to agree with me that, to copy Nature, one 
must be a great artist, and that none but a great artist 



326 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

can comprehend Nature so as to copy her faithfully. 
The ideal quality of the painter is manifested in his 
choice of a subject; as for the execution, it should be 
the perfection of what the ignorant call realism. 
Choose as your subject Enguerrard de Marigny or 
Agnes Sorel, if you will, but let their hands, their 
hair, their eyes be natural, lifelike, human. The sub- 
ject itself matters little. Doubtless, from every point 
of view, modern subjects are the most interesting, 
but the genuine, the only, the true realism is in the 
execution. No doubt it is more easy to interest the 
spectator in one subject than in another — but even 
so! — If Bastien-Lepage were to paint Mile, de la 
Valliere or Mary Stuart, dead and turned to dust as 
they are, they would come to life again under his 
touch. 

There was also a little portrait of the elder Coque- 
lin — I could find no words to express my admiration ; 
it is his very expression as he speaks ; you can see the 
gesture he is in the act of making with his hand, his 
eyes wink. 

Wednesday, August 23. — Instead of working on any 
of my studies I have been going out. Yes, Made- 
moiselle has been taking observations in the interest 
of art. I went to the Orphan Asylum twice to-day — 
this morning and again in the afternoon. 

Monday, August 28. — I have read for the second 
time a book by Ouida, a woman who is not endowed 
with a great deal of genius; it is called "Adriana," 
and is in English. 

Tuesday, August 29. — This book has disturbed me ; 
Ouida is neither Georges Sand, nor Balzac, nor 
Dumas, but she has produced a book which, for pro- 
fessional reasons, has thrown me into a fever. Her 



I882.J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 327 

ideas and opinions concerning art, acquired among the 
studios of Italy, where she has lived, are extremely 
just. 

She says, among other things, that with the true 
artist — not the artisan — the conception is immeasur- 
ably superior to the power of execution. Again, the 
great sculptor Marix, when he had seen the first at- 
tempts at modeling of the young heroine, the future 
woman of genius, says: "Let her come; she will 
accomplish all that she desires to accomplish." So 
Tony Robert-Fleury said, after he had carefully ex- 
amined my drawings at the studio: "Work hard, 
Mademoiselle, you will accomplish whatever you de- 
sire'' were his words. 

But my work has, no doubt, been one-sided. Saint- 
Marceaux said that my drawings were the drawings 
of a sculptor, and I have always loved form beyond 
everything else. 

I love color, also, but now, since I have read this 
book — and even before — painting appears a miserable 
thing compared to sculpture. And, then, I ought to 
hate it, as I hate every imitation, every imposture. 

Nothing irritates me more than to see artificial 
objects imitated in painting on a surface necessarily 
smooth and flat, whether it be a work of art that is 
concerned, or a common wall-paper. The sight of 
such things enrages me as the sight of red enrages 
a bull. What can be more odious, for instance, than 
imitations of pictures on walls, as we sometimes see 
— even in the Louvre — or the friezes on the walls of 
furnished apartments imitating carved wood or lace. 

What is it, then, that prevents me from being a 
sculptor ? Nothing. I am free ; I am so situated that 
all my artistic needs are supplied. I have an entire 
floor to myself — an antechamber, a bed-room, a 
library, a splendidly lighted studio, and finally, a little 
garden, in which I can work when I choose. I have 



328 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

had a speaking tube put in, so that I may not be dis- 
turbed by any one coming upstairs and that I may 
not have to go downstairs too often. 

And what am I painting, with all this ? A little girl 
who has turned up her black petticoat over her 
shoulders, and who holds an open umbrella in her 
hand. I work in the open air, and almost every day 
it rains. And then — what does all this signify ? What 
is it compared to a thought expressed in marble ? And 
what use have I made of the sketch I did three years 
ago, in October, 1879? They gave us the subject — 
Ariadne — at the studio, and I was enthusiastic about 
it, as I was about the Holy Women at the Sepulchre. 
Julian and Tony thought the subject a good one. Here 
it is now three years since I first determined to learn 
modeling for the purpose of doing it in marble. I 
feel myself powerless where commonplace subjects are 
concerned. And the terrible thought, "To what end?" 
keeps my hands tied. 

Yes, the prejudice in favor of linear perspective is 
a mistaken one, the preference for colors a false sen- 
timent — coloring is a purely mechanical art which 
gradually absorbs all one's powers, and leaves no room 
for original conception. 

The execution of the painter who is a thinker or a 
poet is generally of an inferior degree of excellence. 
How could I have deceived myself as I have done in 
regard to this truth, and clung to this art with such 
mad persistency? 

August 30. — I am engaged in drawing my Magda- 
len, for which I have an excellent model. I saw three 
years ago the face I wanted for it, and this woman 
has the very same features, and the same terribly in- 
tense expression of despair. 

No painting has ever affected me like the Jeanne 



I882.J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 320 

d'Arc of Bastien-Lepage ; there is something mysteri- 
ous, supernatural, in her expression, born of the in- 
tensity of feeling produced by her vision — a feeling 
understood by the artist who has painted it as at once 
grand, human, inspired, and divine; all that it was, 
in fact, but which no one before him had compre- 
hended. 

Friday, September 1. — I have received a letter from 
mamma in which she tells me that our young neighbors 
are visiting at our house, with some friends of theirs, 
and that they are getting up a grand hunt. She is 
ready to return, but, as I had asked her to let me 
know if — she has done so. Well, this plunges me in 
a sea of uncertainty, doubt, and anxiety. If I go to 
Russia, there is an end to my picture for the Exhibi- 
tion. If I had even been working all the summer, 
I might have the pretext of needing rest, but this is 
not the case. It would be splendid, of course, but 
nothing is less probable. Anl to travel for four days 
and nights in a railway-coach, and sacrifice the labor 
of a year to go and try to make a conquest of some 
one I have never seen — there is neither sense nor rea- 
son in it. If I begin to think of committing this piece 
of folly, I shall, perhaps, be guilty of it, for I no longer 
know what I am doing. I shall go to see Mother 
Jacob the fortune-teller about it; the same who fore- 
told that I should have a serious illness. 

For the sum of twenty francs I have just pur- 
chased good fortune enough to last me for at least 
two days. Mother Jacob has predicted, from the 
cards, the most delightful things for me — a little 
mixed up, it is true. But what turns up with most 
persistence is that I am going to achieve a brilliant 
success, of which all the newspapers will talk; that I 
shall be a great genius, and that a change for the bet- 
ter is going to take place ; that I am to make a splendid 



330 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

marriage, to have great wealth, and to travel a great 
deal. 

The delight all this gives me is insensate, if you will, 
but all it costs me is twenty francs; I shall not go to 
Russia, but to Algeria, for if all these things are going 
to happen to me, they will happen to me there as well 
as in Russia. 

Good-night; this has done me good; I shall work 
well to-morrow. 

Wednesday, September 6. — I am not an artist. I 
desired to be one, and, as I am intelligent, I learned 
certain details of the art. — How then explain what 
Robert-Fleury said to me when I began: "You have 
already what is not to be learned." He deceived him- 
self, that is all. 

I paint, as I do anything else, with intelligence and 
skill — nothing more. Why then did I draw heads with 
chalk on the card-tables in our country-house when I 
was only four years old? 

All children draw. But whence the constant desire 
to draw — to copy engravings, both before we left 
Russia, and afterward, at Nice, when I was only 
eleven? They thought then that I had an extraor- 
dinary talent for drawing, and I studied, under various 
masters, for a couple of years. 

Well, upon reflection, I find that I always had the 
desire to learn drawing, the impulse toward art; that 
I made efforts, but without any one to direct them. 
And then came the journey to Italy — Rome. They say 
in novels that it is possible to appreciate the beauties 
of art without any previous instruction, but I con- 
fess that I have only learned gradually to appreciate 
the beauties, that is to say, the merits of paintings. In 
short, I have lost confidence, I have lost courage. I 
am deficient in some sense. I appreciate beauty of 
coloring, but — I cannot say precisely that I have not 



i882.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 331 

been able to attain it, for I have done two or three 
things which are good, both in coloring and execution. 
If I have done some good things, that means that I 
can do others — this is what encourages me. And I 
was going to abandon my role of artist and painter — 
especially of painter. In short, I paint not so badly, 
but I think I should do better as a sculptor — I have 
certain conceptions — of forms, gestures, attitudes — 
that cannot be expressed in color. 

Sunday, September 24. — The days following one 
another in unbroken monotony; from eight in the 
morning till five, painting; an hour for a bath before 
dinner; then dinner, eaten in silence, for I read the 
newspapers while I eat, interchanging an occasional 
word with my aunt. She must be bored to death, poor 
woman ! Truly I am not very amiable ; she has never 
enjoyed any happiness in life; formerly she sacrificed 
herself for mamma, who was the beauty of the family, 
and now she lives only for us, for me; yet I cannot 
succeed in being amiable and pleasant during the rare 
moments in which we are together ; and then, I enjoy 
a silence during which my thoughts do not dwell upon 
my infirmities. 

In Russia, Saturday, October 14. — My aunt left me 
at the frontier, and I made the rest of the journey 
with Paul. We have to wait five hours here for the 
train. The place is called Znamenka. It is cold, and 
the sky is overcast; if it were not quite so cold, it 
would be delightful to be in the open air. I have 
been observing the peasants, with their garments dis- 
colored by exposure to the inclemency of the weather, 
and I see how true to nature are the paintings of 
Bastien-Lepage. "The tones are gray, the atmosphere 
is flat, it has no body," say those who are unaccustomed 
to observe nature out-of-doors, who know her only in 



332 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

the exaggerated effects of the studio. But this is pre- 
cisely what nature is ; his rendering could not be truer 
or more faithful. Ah, Bastien ought to be a happy 
man ! And I who left Paris filled with chagrin at the 
thought of my ruined Fisherman! 

But I will try to finish it in March, in time for the 
Salon. 

It is Robert-Fleury who has advised me to retouch 
it ; I am to leave the background and the dress as they 
are; there is nothing to be done but to retouch the 
head. 

Gavronzi, Sunday, October 15. — We went to bed at 
seven o'clock this morning, as we came direct to Gav- 
ronzi. Mamma, papa, Dina, and Kapitan were at the 
station to meet us. Paul's wife has a little boy two 
weeks old. The little girl is a year old, and is a 
charming child, with long, black lashes. The young 

P s are to arrive to-morrow. Michka has gone 

to see them, instead of waiting here for me with the 
others. 

Thursday, October 19. — Here we have them with 
us at last. They arrived in time for breakfast with 
Michka. Victor, the elder, is slender and dark, and 
has a large aquiline nose; he is rather stout, has full 
lips, is distinguished in appearance, and has agreeable 
manners. The younger, Basili, is about the same 
height, but much stouter ; he is very fair, with a florid 
complexion, and cunning eyes ; he seems quarrelsome, 
turbulent, brutal, and yes — vulgar. I wore the same 
gown as yesterday — a white wool, short and extremely 
simple, with kid shoes of old red ; my hair was twisted 
in a knot at the back of the head. This was not one 
of my brilliant days, but neither, on the other hand, 
did I look my worst. 

I do not think I shall make a conquest of either 



i88a.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 333 

of the brothers. There is nothing in me that could 
please them; I am of medium stature, well propor- 
tioned, and neither dark nor fair; my eyes are gray, 
and I have neither a large bust nor a wasp waist ; and, 
as for my mental qualities, I think, without flattering 
myself, that I am sufficiently their superior not to be 
appreciated by them. And as a woman of the world 
I am no more charming than many other women of 
their own set. 

On reaching the railway at St. Petersburg Sarah 
Bernhardt was hissed by the populace because they 
were disappointed at not seeing her tall and dark, with 
enormous eyes, and a mass of tangled black hair. 
Aside from this piece of stupidity I think the judgment 
formed here of the actress and the woman a just one, 
and I am altogether of the opinion of the Russian 
journals, which place Mile. Delaporte above her. For 
my part, with the exception of the music of her voice 
when she declaims, I find little in her to admire. 

Paris, Wednesday, November 15. — I am in Paris! 
We left Russia on Thursday evening. Uncle Nicholas 
and Michka accompanied us as far as the first station, 
and Paul and his wife as far as Karkoff. We remained 
twenty- four hours at Kieff, where Uncle Alexandre's 
daughter is at the Academy. She is fourteen years old, 
and is a sweet girl. 

Thursday, November 16. — I have been to see a great 
doctor, a surgeon who visits the hospital. I went 
incognito, and quietly dressed so that he might not 
deceive me. 

Indeed, he is not a very amiable person. He simply 
told me that I should never recover my hearing. 
It may grow better, however, so that my deafness will 
be endurable. It is so already, in fact. But if I do 
not follow strictly the treatment he prescribes for me, 



334 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

my deafness will increase. He has given me the ad- 
dress of a little doctor who will attend me for a couple 
of months, as he himself has the time to see me only 
twice a week, which is all that will be necessary. 

For the first time I had the courage to say : "Doctor, 
I am growing deaf." Up to the present I have used 
such expressions as, "I cannot hear very well/' "My 
ears seem stopped," etc. This time I have had the 
courage to say the hateful word, and the doctor has 
answered me with the brutality of his profession. 

I only hope that the misfortunes foreshadowed in 
my dreams may be nothing more than this. But let 
me not trouble myself beforehand about what blows 
Providence may still have in store for me. For the 
time being I am only partially deaf. 

And then he says that my hearing will certainly 
improve. So long as I am surrounded by my family, 
to watch over me and come to my assistance when I 
need them, it can be borne; but how would it be if 
I were alone, and among strangers! 

And what if it should fall to my lot to have a bad 
husband, or one who would be wanting in delicacy 
of feeling! If this were even the price I had to pay 
for some great good fortune which had befallen me 
without my deserving it. But — Why do they say that 
God is good, that God is just? 

I shall never recover my hearing, then. It will be 
endurable, but there will always be a veil between me 
and the rest of the world. The wind among the trees, 
the murmur of the brook, the rain striking against the 
window-panes, whispered words — I shall hear none of 

these. With the K 's I have not found myself 

once embarrassed, nor do I find myself embarrassed at 
table. So long as the conversation is animated I have 
nothing to complain of. But at the theater I miss a 
great deal of what is said, as I do also with my 
models, — the silence is so profound that they are afraid 



1882.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF, 33^ 

to raise their voices. Well, I had in a certain measure 
foreseen this for a year past ; I ought to be accustomed 
to the thought by this time. I am accustomed to it, 
but it is none the less horrible. 

I have been stricken in that which was most dear 
to me, most necessary to my happiness. 

Provided only that it stop here! 

Friday, November 17. — So then I shall be hence- 
forth less than the least of human beings — incomplete, 
infirm. 

I shall stand in constant need of the complaisance 
and the co-operation of my family, and of the consid- 
eration of strangers. Independence, freedom, all that 
is at an end. 

I, who have been so haughty, shall have to blush 
and hesitate at every moment. 

I write all this so as to accustom myself to the 
thought — not because I believe it yet ; it is too horrible. 
I have not yet realized it; it is too cruel, too hard to 
be believed. 

The sight of my fresh and rosy countenance in the 
looking-glass fills me with pity. 

Yes, every one knows it, or soon will know it, — • 
those who have already taken such delight in dis- 
paraging me — "She is deaf." O my God! why this 
unexpected, this terrible blow? 

Tuesday, November 21. — I have been painting at 
the studio since yesterday. I have returned to the 
simplest studies, taking note neither of the beauty of 
the model, nor of anything else. "With six months 
of this regime ," Julian says, "you will accomplish 
whatever you wish." He is convinced that I have 
made no progress during the last three years, and I 
shall end by believing him. In fact, since I began 
painting I have made but little progress. Is this be- 



336 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

cause I have not worked as hard as before? No, I 
have, on the contrary, worked harder than before, 
but I have undertaken subjects that are too difficult 
for me. 

But Julian will have it that it is because I do not 
work hard enough, that I have made no progress. 

I am tired of them all; I am tired of myself! I 
shall never recover my hearing. Can you understand 
how horrible, how unjust, how maddening this is? 

I can bear this thought with calmness, for I was 
prepared for it; but no — that is not the reason; it is 
because I cannot believe it will be forever. 

Do you understand what that means? — all my life 
long — until I die. 

But I repeat, I cannot yet believe it to be true. It 
is impossible but that something can be done, impos- 
sible that it is to be forever, that I am to die with this 
veil between the universe and me, that I shall never, 
never, never hear again! 

Is it not true that it is impossible to believe that this 
sentence is a final, an irrevocable one? That there 
is not the shadow of a hope? 

This thought makes me so nervous when I am work- 
ing, that I am in constant dread lest the model, or 
some one else in the studio, may have spoken without 
my having heard; or that they are ridiculing my in- 
firmity; or that they are raising their voices so as to 
make me hear. 

But when the model comes to me here, can I not 
say plainly that — what? That I cannot hear well? 
Let me try it, then. To make confession of my in- 
firmity, like that! And so humiliating, so stupid, so 
pitiable an infirmity — an infirmity, in short! 

I have not the courage to confess it, and I still 
cherish the hope that it may not be perceived. 

Thursday, November 23. — All I have done this week 



i882.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 337 

is so bad that I myself cannot understand it. Julian 
called me to him, and spoke such useless, such cruel 
words to me, — I cannot understand it! Last year 
he said almost the same thing to me : and now, looking 
over last year's studies, he says : "That was good work ; 
you would not be able to do so well now." To believe 
him, then, I have made no progress during the last 
three years; that is to say, he had begun his lamen- 
tations and his reproaches and his sarcastic speeches 
three years ago, ever since I began to paint, in fact. 

Perhaps he thinks he will force me to work, in this 
way; on the contrary, it paralyzes me; I was unable 
to do anything for more than three hours — my hands 
trembled, my arms burned. 

Last summer I painted a portrait of Irma, laughing, 
and every one thought it good. This summer, on my 
return from Spain, I made a pastel, after my illness, 
which every one thought extremely good; and a pic- 
ture which they thought good. What have I done 
since ? I have spoiled my Fisherman; and then, I have 
been in Russia — six weeks of vacation; on my return 
I chanced upon a model I did not like, I chose a bad 
position; notwithstanding all this I forced myself to 
work against my will; I produced a wretched thing, 
which I destroyed. Then, I attempt to paint an arm; 
Julian comes to see it just as I have sketched it, and 
finds it very bad, and tells me so privately. That I 
am not a Breslau I know very well; that I need to 
study I know too; but between that and telling me 
that my case is hopeless, that I can no longer paint — 
upon my word, one would imagine that I knew noth- 
ing at all about art! 

If I do not make as rapid progress in painting as I 
did in drawing, that is no reason why he should say 
such horrible things to me. 

Monday, November 27. — Now that I have returned 



338 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

to the studio and he can no longer say I do not work, 
Julian tells me that I am pretending. This continual 
fault-finding becomes monotonous. The day before 
yesterday he said it was only during the last two years 
that I had made no progress. During those two years 
I was ill for five months, and convalescing for six 
months more. In the remaining time I have painted 
my picture for the Salon — a woman, life-size, painted 
from life in Russia, the Old Man of Nice, Therese, 
Irma, and Dina. So much for large paintings; I do 
not count several studies. That they are not good I 
know very well — but it is not as if my shoemaker had 
painted them for his own amusement. 

I suppose he thinks his words will spur me on ; that 
he is witty, perhaps. How exasperating this is! Of 
course I am not situated like Breslau, who moves in 
an artistic circle, where every word spoken, every step 
taken, bears some relation to art. But all that I can 
do, in the environment in which I am placed, I do. 

No doubt I lose a great deal of time from study; 
in the evenings, for instance, which Breslau employs 
in drawing, and in sketching compositions, my atten- 
tion is distracted and dissipated by the persons who 
surround me. 

Environment — half one's progress depends upon 
that, during the time one is a student. Letting my 
thoughts dwell continually on this idea gives to my 
countenance an expression of concentrated rage, or 
rather of alienation from those who surround me. If 
I were not afraid of drawing down upon my head 
other misfortunes, I would say that God is unjust. 
Yet why should I say so ? I have a horror of myself ; 
I have grown stout; my shoulders, that were large 
enough already, are broader, my arms are rounder, 
and my chest fuller than before. 

Tuesday, December 5. — I have just read "Honorine" 



i882.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 339 

at a sitting. What would I not give to be mistress of 
this fascinating style, that I might be able to interest 
my readers in my dull existence. 

It would be curious if this record of my failures 
and of my obscure life should be the means of procur- 
ing for me the fame I long for, and shall always long 
for. But I should not be conscious of it then; and, 
besides, in order that any one should wade through 
these interminable pages, would it not be necessary 
that I should first win a name? 

Two or three days ago we went to the Hotel Drouot, 
where there was an exhibition of precious stones. 
Mamma, my aunt, and Dina were lost in admiration 
of some of the ornaments; I, however, made little of 
anything, with the exception of some enormous dia- 
monds which, for a single instant, I desired to possess ; 
it would be delightful, I thought, to possess a pair of 
them; but such a thing was not to be thought of. I 
contented myself with thinking, therefore, that if I 
should one day marry a millionaire, I might own a 
pair of earrings with diamonds of this size, or a 
brooch, for stones of such a size would be almost too 
heavy for earrings. This was the first time I had ever 
fully appreciated the beauty of precious stones. Well, 
last night those two stones were brought to me; my 
mother and my aunt had bought them for me, yet I 
had only said, without the slightest expectation of ever 
having them, "Those are the only diamonds I have 
ever cared to possess." They are worth twenty-five 
thousand francs; they are yellow, otherwise they 
would have cost three times that sum. 

I amused myself with them during the whole even- 
ing; I kept them in my pocket while I was modeling. 
Dusautoy played, and Bojidar and the others chatted. 
I did not part with the stones all the evening, and I 
put them beside my bed when I went to sleep. 

Ah, if certain other things that seem as impossible 



340 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

might only be so easily obtained — even if they should 
prove to be yellow, and should cost only four thousand 
instead of twenty-five thousand francs ! 

Thursday, December 7. — I spent a few moments 
chatting with Julian, but we never have the long and 
friendly conversations together now that we used to 
have. We have no longer anything to talk about, 
everything has been said; we are waiting until I 
shall accomplish something. I reproached him with 
his injustice toward me, however, or rather with the 
means he took to spur me on. 

My pastel is to be sent to a club, and then to the 
Salon. "It could not be better," said Julian, and I 
felt like throwing my arms around his neck. 

Well, then, I must paint a picture that artists will 
stop to look at. But I shall not be able to do that 
just yet. Ah, if I only thought that by working, no 
matter how hard, I might at last succeed ! That would 
give me courage, but at present I feel as if it were 
impossible. 

Thursday, December 14. — We went this morning to 
see the paintings which the Bastien has brought back 
with him from the country. We found him engaged 
in making some alterations in his pictures. Our meet- 
ing was like that of good friends; he is so amiable, 
so unpretending! 

Perhaps he is not quite that; but then he has so 
much genius ! But yes, he is charming. 

As for the poor architect, he is completely cast in 
the shade by his brother's splendor. Jules brought 
with him several studies of the "Soir au Village": a 
peasant returning from his labor in the fields, has 
stopped to talk with a woman who is going toward a 
house in the distance, the windows of which are 
lighted up by the rays of the rising moon. The effect 



i882.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 341 

of the twilight is marvelously rendered ; one can feel 
the calm of the hour pervading everything. It is full 
of poetry and charm, and the coloring is wonderful. 

There is also a scene representing a Forge, at which 
an old man is at work. It is very small, and is as fine 
as those wonderful little dark pictures that are to be 
seen at the Louvre. Besides these there are landscapes 
and marine views — Venice and London — and two 
large pictures, an English flower-girl, and a little peas- 
ant-girl in a field. 

At the first glance one is dazzled by the versatility 
and the force of this genius that disdains to confine 
itself to a single style, and that treats every style in a 
masterly manner. 

This English boy is far superior to the two pictures 
I have just mentioned. As for the boy of last year, 
entitled "Pas-meche," it is simply a masterpiece. 

Sunday, December 17. — The real, the only, the 
great Bastien-Lepage came to see me to-day. I re- 
ceived him with embarrassment, for I was vexed and 
humiliated at having nothing worth while to show 
him. 

He stayed looking at my pictures for more than two 
hours, although I did my best to prevent his seeing 
them. This great artist is extremely amiable ; he tried 
to put me at my ease, and we spoke of Julian, who is 
the cause of my present discouragement. Bastien 
does not treat me like a society girl. His opinion is 
the same as that of Tony Robert-Fleury and of 
Julian, only he does not make use of the horrible 
jests of the latter, who says all is over; that I shall 
never be able to accomplish anything; that there is 
no hope for me. This is what afflicts me. 

Bastien is adorable; that is to say, I adore his 
talent ; and I think my embarrassment in his presence 
was the most delicate and flattering compliment I 



342 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

could have paid him. He made a sketch in the 
album of Miss Richards, in which she had asked me 
to draw something, and, as the paint passed through, 
and stained the following page, he wished to lay a 
piece of paper between. 

"Leave it so," I said; "she will then have two 
sketches, instead of one." I don't know why I should 
do a favor to Miss Richards, but at times it amuses 
me to give pleasure to a person who does not expect 
it from me, or one who is a stranger to me, 

Wednesday, December 20. — I have made no choice 
of a subject yet for the Salon, and nothing suggests 
itself. — This is torture ! 

Saturday, December 23. — The great, the real, the 
incomparable Bastien-Lepage and his brother dined 
with us this evening. We had invited no other guests, 
which made me feel a little embarrassed. As it was 
the first time they had dined with us, it might seem 
as if we were treating them with too much familiar- 
ity ; and then I was afraid, besides, of not being able 
to entertain them. 

As to the brother, he is received here with almost 
the same familiarity as Bojidar, but oUr concern was 
for the real, the great, the only, etc. And the good 
little man, whose genius is worth more than his 
weight in gold, is flattered and pleased, I think, at 
being regarded in this way; no one has yet called 
him a "genius." I do not call him so, either. I only 
treat him as such, and, by means of artifices, make 
him swallow the most extravagant compliments. 
Bojidar came for a few moments in the evening; was 
in an amiable humor, and agreed with everything I 
said. We treat him like one of the family, and he 
is pleased to meet here celebrities such as Bastien. 

But in order that Bastien may not think I carry 



I882.J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 343 

my admiration for him to excess, I couple Saint- 
Marceaux with him whenever I speak of them. 
"You two," I say. He stayed until midnight. He 
thought a bottle I had painted very good. "That is 
the way you must work," he added, "with patience 
and concentration ; use your best efforts to copy nature 
faithfully." 

Tuesday, December 26. — Well, it seems that I am 
really ill; the doctor who is attending me is unac- 
quainted with me; he has no interest in deceiving 
me, and he says the right lung is affected; that it 
will never be completely cured, but that, if I take 
care of my health, it will grow no worse, and I may 
live as long as any one else. Yes, but it is necessary 
to arrest the progress of the disease by heroic 
measures — by burning, and by a blister — everything 
that is delightful, in short! A blister! that means a 
yellow stain for a year or more. I might, indeed, 
conceal the mark by wearing, in the evening, a bunch 
of flowers over the right shoulder. 

I shall wait for a week longer; if I am no better 
by that time, I shall consent to this atrocity. 

Thursday, December 28. — So this, then, is what 
the matter is — I have consumption; he told me so 
to-day. "Take care of yourself/ he said; "try to get 
well, or you will regret it." 

He is a young man, and has an intelligent look, 
this doctor; to my objections regarding the blister, 
and other wretched thinks of the kind, he answered 
that I would regret it if I did not follow his advice, 
and that he has never in his life seen so extraordinary 
a patient as I am; and also that from my appearance 
no one would suppose that my lungs were affected. 
And, indeed, although both my lungs are affected, the 



344 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

left much less seriously than the right however, I 
look the picture of health. 

The first time I felt anything in the left lung was 
on leaving the sacred catacombs of Kieff, where we 
had gone to pray to God and to the saints for my 
recovery, reinforcing our prayers by paying to have 
a great many masses said. A week ago scarcely any- 
thing was noticeable in the left lung. He asked me 
if any of my family had had consumption. 

"Yes," I replied, "my grandfather, and two of 
his sisters, the Countess of Toulouse-Lautrec, and the 
Baroness Stralborne, a great-great-grandfather, and 
two grandaunts." At any rate, I have consumption. 

My knees trembled slightly as I went downstairs, 
after my interview with this good man, who is in- 
terested in so eccentric a patient. The disease might 
be checked if I would follow his orders; that is to 
say, apply blisters to the chest, and go to the 
South — disfigure myself for a year and go into ban- 
ishment. And what is a year compared to one's 
whole life? And my life is so beautiful! 

I am quite calm, but I have a sense of strangeness 
at being the only one in the secret of my misfortune. 
And how about the fortune-teller who predicted for 
me so much happiness? Mother Jacob, however, told 
me that I should have a serious illness, and here it 
is. In order that her predictions may be altogether 
fulfilled there are still to come: A great success; 
wealth, marriage, and the love of a married man. 
This news about the left lung troubles me, though. 
Potain would never acknowledge that the lungs were 
affected; he made use of the phrases usual in such 
cases — the bronchial tubes, bronchitis, etc. It is 
better to know exactly what the matter is; that will 
decide me to do all I can — except to go away this 
year. 

Next winter I shall have my painting of the Holy 



1882.1 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 345 

Women as an excuse for this journey. To go this 
winter would be to begin over again the follies of 
last year. I will do everything that it is possible 
for me to do, then, except go South — and trust in the 
grace of God! 

What has made this doctor speak so seriously is, 
that since he has been attending me my lungs have 
become much worse. He was treating me for my 
deafness, and I mentioned my chest to him by chance, 
and laughingly; he examined my lungs and prescribed 
some remedies for them a month ago, and laid par- 
ticular stress on blistering; on this latter, however, I 
could not resolve, hoping that the trouble would not 
progress so rapidly as it has done. 

I have consumption, then, but my lungs have been 
affected only for the past two or three years. And 
after all the trouble is not so serious as to cause my 
death, though it is very distressing! 

But how, then, explain my blooming appearance, 
and the fact that the waists of my dresses, made be- 
fore my illness, and when no one had any idea that 
there was anything the matter with me, are all too 
small for me? I suppose I shall grow thin all of a 
sudden. 

Well, if I am granted ten years of life, and during 
those ten years love and fame, I shall be content to 
die at thirty. If there were any one with whom it 
would be possible to make this agreement, I would 
do so — to die — having lived up to that time — at thirty. 

But I" should like to get well ; that is to say, that 
the progress of the malady might be arrested, for 
the disease is never cured, though one may live with 
it a long time — as long as any one else, in fact. I 
will apply as many blisters as they like to my chest, 
but I must go on with my painting. 

Ah, I was right in predicting that it was my fate 
to die early. After being overwhelmed with mis for- 



346 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1882. 

tunes death now comes to end all. I knew well that 
I must die early; my life, as it was, could not last. 
This desire to possess all things, these colossal aspira- 
tions, could not continue, I knew it well; years ago 
at Nice I foresaw dimly all that would be necessary 
to make life possible for me. But others possess 
even more than I desired, and they do not die. 

I shall speak to no one of my condition, with the 
exception of Julian, who knows it already. He dined 
with us this evening, and, finding myself alone with 
him for a moment, I nodded to him significantly, 
pointing to my throat and chest as I did. He cannot 
believe it, I appear so strong. He tried to reassure 
me by telling me of friends of his in regard to whom 
the doctors had said the same thing, and had proved 
to be mistaken. 

Then he asked me what my ideas respecting 
Heaven were. I told him Heaven had used me very 
ill. "As to my ideas respecting it," I added, "I have 
thought but little about it." He says he thinks, how- 
ever, that I believe there is something after this life. 
"Yes," I said, "it is possible." I read him Musset's 
"Espoir en Dieu," and he responded by reciting 
Franck's invocation, "I must live !" 

I, too, wish to live. Well, this position of one con- 
demned to death almost amuses me. It is an oppor- 
tunity to pose; it is a new sensation; I hold a secret 
within me. I have been touched by the hand of 
Death ; there is a certain fascination in all this — it 
is a novelty, in the first place. 

And then to be able to talk in earnest of my 
death — that amuses me, that is interesting. Only it 
is a pity that I cannot conveniently have any other 
audience than my confessor Julian. 

Saturday, December 30. — The disease progresses. 
There, now I begin to exaggerate; yet, no, it is true 



i882.J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFP. 347 

that it progresses, and that I shall never be well again, 
and that the good God, who is neither just nor good, 
will probably inflict still further punishment upon 
me for daring to say so! He inspires me with such 
dread that I shall submit myself to His will — a sub- 
mission which He will probably not take into account, 
since it is the result of fear. 

Provided only — the worst of it is that I cough a 
great deal, and that ominous sounds are to be heard 
in my chest. Well, let us leave everything till the 
fourteenth. If I can only keep in any kind of health 
until then! If I only remain free from fever; if I am 
not obliged to take to bed. That is not likely, how- 
ever. Yet perhaps the disease is already beyond con- 
trol, it is one that progresses so rapidly. And both 
lungs! Ah, woe is me! 

Sunday, December 31. — As it was too dark to paint, 
we went to church; after that we went to the Ex- 
hibition, in the Rue de Seze, of the paintings of Bas- 
tien, Saint-Marceaux, and Cazin. This is the first 
time that I have seen any of Cazin's paintings, and 
they have completely captivated me. They are poetry 
itself; but Bastien's "Soir au Village" is in no way 
inferior to any of the pictures of this poet-painter, 
Cazin, and observe that Bastien has often been un- 
justly said to excel in execution only. 

I spent a delightful hour there. How many things 
there were to be enjoyed ! Never was there a sculptor 
like Saint-Marceaux. The words, so often used as 
to become hackneyed, "It is lifelike!" are in his case 
absolute truth. And, in addition to this important 
quality, which alone would be sufficient to make the 
success of an artist, there is in his work a depth of 
thought, an intensity of feeling, an indescribable 
something which shows Saint-Marceaux to be an 
artist, not alone of great talent, but almost of genius. 



348 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

It is only because he is young, and is still living, 
that I seem to exaggerate his merits. 

For the moment I am disposed to place him above 
Bastien. 

I have at present a fixed idea — it is to possess a 
picture by the one, and a statue by the other. 



1883 

Monday, January 1. — Gambetta, who had been 
lying ill or wounded for many days past, has just 
died. Died notwithstanding all his seven physicians 
could do to save him, notwithstanding all the interests 
of which he was the center, all the prayers offered 
up for his recovery! Why should I torment myself? 
Why should I hope to recover? Why should I 
grieve? — The idea of dying terrifies me, now, as if 
I had already come face to face with death. 

Yes, I think it must come — soon, now. Ah, how 
I feel my littleness ! And yet why ? There must be 
something beyond the grave ; this transitory existence 
cannot be all ; it does not satisfy either our reason or 
our aspirations; there must be something beyond; if 
there were not, this life would have no meaning, and 
God would be an absurdity. 

The life to come — there are moments when one 
catches mysterious glimpses of it that terrify one. 

Tuesday, January 16. — Emile Bastien took us to 
Gambetta's house at Ville d'Avray, where his brother 
is working. 

Bastien-Lepage was seated at the foot of the bed, 
painting. Everything in the room remains as it was 



i883.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASBKIRTSEFF. 349 

— the sheets, the eiderdown coverlet, that still retains 
the impress of the body, the flowers on the bed. The 
picture is truth itself. The head, thrown back, and 
taken in a three-quarter view, wears the look of 
nothingness that succeeds to intense suffering — a 
serenity that is lifelike, but that has in it also some- 
thing of eternal peace. You fancy you see before 
you the man himself. The body, stretched motion- 
less on the bed, and from which life has just departed, 
is strikingly impressive. 

What a happy man Bastien-Lepage must be! I 
feel when in his presence a certain awkwardness. 
Although he has the physique of a young man of 
twenty-five, he has the air of unaffected and amiable 
serenity which is characteristic of great men — of 
Victor Hugo, for instance. I shall end by thinking 
him handsome; at all events he possesses the infinite 
charm conferred by the consciousness of power — in 
which, however, there is nothing of either arrogance 
or conceit. 

On the wall is to be seen the mark left by the 
bullet which caused Gambetta's death. He called our 
attention to it, and the silence of this chamber, the 
faded flowers, the sunlight entering through the 
window, — all this brought the tears to my eyes. He 
was absorbed in his painting, however, and his back 
was turned to me ; so, in order not to lose the benefit 
of this display of sensibility, I extended my hand 
to him abruptly, and hastily left the room, the tears 
running down my face. I hope that he observed 
them. It is hateful, yes, hateful, to have to confess 
that one is always thinking of the effect. 

Monday, January 22. — For the past two months I 
have been going twice a week to see the doctor recom- 
mended to me by M. Duplay, who had not the time 
to attend me himself. The treatment that was to 



350 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

have produced such good results had not done so. 
I am no better, but they hope the disease will not 
progress. "And if it should not progress," he says, 
"you may consider yourself very fortunate." This 
is hard. 

Thursday, February 22. — I have been playing airs 
from Chopin on the piano, and from Rossini on the 
harp, all alone in my studio. The moon shone brightly ; 
through the large window of the studio I could see 
the beautiful cloudless blue sky. I thought of my 
picture of the Holy Women, and was so carried away 
by the impression it made upon me, as it presented 
itself to my imagination, that I was seized with an 
irrational fear lest some one else should do it before 
me. This thought troubled the profound peace of the 
night. 

I have been very happy this evening: I have been 
reading Hamlet in English, and I have been reveling 
in the music of Ambroise Thomas. 

There are dramas that never lose their power to 
move the soul, characters that are immortal — 
"Ophelia," for instance, pale and fair! we give her a 
place in our hearts. Ophelia! She makes us long 
to experience an unhappy love. Ophelia with her 
flowers, Ophelia dead! — How beautiful is all this! 

Ah, if God would only grant me power to finish 
my picture — my large picture, my real picture. My 
picture for this year will be only a sort of study — 
inspired by Bastien? Yes, of course; his painting so 
closely resembles nature that whoever copies nature 
faithfully must resemble him. 

His faces are living faces ; they are not merely fine 
paintings like the faces of Carolus, they are art; in 
short they are the real flesh, they breathe, they live. 
The question here is not one of skill, nor of a fine 
touch. This is nature itself; it is sublime! 



i883.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 351 

Saturday, February 24. — My thoughts, as you know, 
are constantly occupied with Bastien-Lepage ; I re- 
peat his name to myself continually, but to avoid 
speaking it aloud, as if to do so were something to 
be ashamed of. When I do mention it, it is with a 
tender familiarity which would seem to be only natu- 
ral, considering his genius, but which might be mis- 
understood. 

Good heavens ! what a pity it is that he cannot come 
to see me, as his brother does! 

And what should I do if he were to come? Make 
him my friend, of course! What! Do you not be- 
lieve there is such a feeling as friendship? As for 
me I could worship those of my friends who are fam- 
ous, and this not through vanity alone, but also because 
of the delight I take in their talents — in their intelli- 
gence, their ability, their genius. Those who are 
endowed with genius are a race apart; when we have 
escaped from the region of mediocrity we revel in a 
purer atmosphere, where we may join hands with the 

elect, and dance around in honor of What was 

I about to say ? But the truth is, that Bastien-Lepage 
has a charming head. 

I fear, indeed, that my painting may be found to 
resemble his. I copy nature faithfully, I know, but 
while I am doing so I am thinking of his pictures. 
And then, an artist of any genius who loves nature, 
and who desires to copy lier faithfully, will always 
resemble Bastien. 

Tuesday, February 27. — This has been a series of 
happy days. I sing, I chat, I laugh, and the name 
of Bastien-Lepage recurs constantly in my thoughts, 
like a refrain. Not himself, not the corporeal man, 
scarcely his genius — nothing but his name. Yet I am 
filled with a certain dread. What if my picture were 
to resemble his? He has lately painted a number of 



352 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

boys and girls — among others the celebrated "Pas- 
meche" ; what could be finer than this ? 

Well, my picture represents two little boys who are 
walking along the pavement holding each other by 
the hand; the elder, a boy of seven, holds a leaf be- 
tween his teeth, and looks straight before him into 
space; the other, a couple of years younger, has one 
hand thrust into the pockets of his little trousers, and 
is looking at the passers-by. 

This evening I enjoyed an hour of intense happi- 
ness. Why ? you ask. Did Saint-Marceaux or Bastien 
come ? No, but I made a sketch for my statue. 

You have read the word correctly. When the fif- 
teenth of March is past, it is my intention to begin 
a statue. In my lifetime I have modeled two groups, 
and two or three busts, all of which I threw aside 
before they were finished ; for, working as I did, alone 
and without instruction, I could work only at some- 
thing in which I was interested, into which I could 
throw my life, my soul, as it were — something real, 
in short, not a mere exercise for the studio. 

To conceive a figure, to throw myself heart and 
soul into the work, this is what I wish to do. 

It will be bad ? no matter ; I was born a sculptor. I 
carry my love of form to the point of adoration. 
Color can never exercise the same power over the soul 
as form does, though I adore color also. But form! 
A noble gesture, a beautiful attitude, fixed in marble, 
look at it from what side you will, the outlines may 
change, but the figure still preserves the same signifi- 
cance. 

Oh, happiness ! Oh, joy ! 

The figure is that of a woman who stands weeping, 
her face buried in her hands ; you know what the atti- 
tude of the shoulders is when one weeps. 

I felt an impulse to kneel down before it; I ad- 
dressed a thousand foolish speeches to it. The clay 



i88 3 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 353 

model is thirty centimetres in height, but the statue 
itself will be life-size. But that will be an outrage 
upon common-sense. And why? 

Finally I tore up a fine batiste chemise in which to 
wrap this fragile statuette. I love this clay more 
dearly than my own flesh. 

And then, as my sight is not very good, when I can 
no longer see to paint I shall devote myself to 
sculpture. 

How beautiful this moist white linen is as it follows 
every curve of this little figure. I wrapped it up with 
a sentiment of respect — so fine, so delicate, so beauti- 
ful is it. 

Wednesday, February 28. — My picture will be 
finished to-morrow. I shall have spent nineteen days 
on it. If I had not had to do over one of the boys, 
it would have been finished in a couple of weeks. But 
he looked too old. 

Saturday, March 3. — Tony came to see the picture. 
He is very much pleased with it. One of the heads 
is very good, he says. 

Thursday, March 15. — My picture is at last fin- 
ished! I was still working at it at three o'clock, but 
a great many visitors came, and I was obliged to leave 
it — Madame and Mademoiselle Canrobert, Alice, Bo- 
jidar, Alexis, the Princess, Abbema, Mme. Kanchine, 
and Tony Robert-Fleury came in the morning. They 
are all going to Bastien's to see his picture, "L'Amour 
au Village." It is a young girl standing with her 
back to the spectator, leaning against a hedge in an 
orchard; her eyes are bent upon the ground, and she 
holds a flower in her hand ; a young man stands beside 
the hedge, facing the spectator; his eyes also are 



354 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

cast down, and he is looking at his fingers which he 
is twisting together. The picture is exquisite in 
sentiment and full of poetry. 

As for the execution — this is not art, it is nature's 
self. There is also a little portrait of Madame 
Drouot, the guardian-angel of Victor Hugo, which is 
wonderful in point of truth, sentiment, and resem- 
blance. None of these pictures look like each other, 
even at a distance; they are living beings who pass 
before your eyes. He is not a painter only, he is 
a poet, a psychologist, a metaphysician, a creator. 

His own portrait, which stands in a corner of the 
room, is a masterpiece. And he has not done his 
best work yet — that is to say, we hope to see a large 
picture from him, in which he will give such proof 
of his genius that no one will dare to deny it any 
longer. 

The young girl, with her hair in short braids, 
standing with her back to the spectator, is a poem. 

No one has ever penetrated more deeply into the 
realities of life than Bastien. Nothing can be at the 
same time more elevated and more human than his 
painting. That the figures are life-size contributes 
to render the truth of his pictures more striking. 
Who can be said to surpass him ? The Italian painters 
— painters of religious and, as a consequence, of con- 
ventional subjects? There are sublime painters 
among them, but they are necessarily conventional, 
and then — their paintings do not touch the heart, the 
soul, the intelligence. The Spanish painters? Bril- 
liant and charming. The French are brilliant, 
dramatic, or academic. 

Millet and Breton are poets, no doubt, but Bastien 
unites everything. He is the king of painters, not 
alone because of his wonderful execution, but on 
account of the sentiment expressed. The art of ob- 
serving could not be carried further, and Balzac has 



1883.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 355 

said that almost the whole of human genius consists 
in observing well. 

Thursday, March 22. — I sent for two workmen 
yesterday, who constructed the framework, life-size, 
for the statue I had modeled in clay. And to-day I 
worked on it, giving it the pose I desired. My mind 
is full of my picture, the Holy Women, which I will 
try to paint this summer; and in sculpture, my first 
thought is Ariadne. Meantime I have done this 
figure, which is, in fact, the other Mary of the pic- 
ture. In sculpture and without drapery, taking a 
younger model, it would make a charming Nausicaa. 
She has buried her face in her hands and is weeping; 
there is in her attitude so genuine an abandonment, 
a despair so complete, so naive, so sincere, and so 
touching, that I am captivated by it. 

Sunday, March 25. — Since two o'clock yesterday I 
have been on the rack, as you may imagine when I 
tell you what has happened. 

Villevielle came to see me and asked me if I had 
heard any news from the Salon. "No," I answered. 
"What! you have heard nothing?" she said. "Noth- 
ing." "You have passed." "I knew nothing of it." 
"There can be no doubt about it, since they have 
reached the letter C." And this is all. I can scarcely 
hold the pen ; my hands tremble, I feel utterly power- 
less. 

Then Alice came and said to me, "Your picture has 
been accepted." 

"Accepted — but how? Without a number?" I 
asked. 

"It is not yet known." 

I had no doubt about it being accepted. 

And all this has thrown mamma, my aunt, and 
everybody else into a state of agitation that it irri- 



356 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

tates me in the highest degree to see. I have had to 
make the greatest efforts in order to appear uncon- 
cerned, and to bring myself to see visitors. 

I sent about forty telegraphic despatches. Later 
on I received a few lines from Julian, which I copy 
here word for word: "O naivete! O sublime ig- 
norance ! I am going to enlighten you at last. 

"Your picture has been accepted, and with a num- 
ber 3 at the least, for there is some one I know who 
wished to give you a number 2. You have conquered 
at last. Greeting and congratulations." 

This is not happiness, but it is at least tranquillity. 

I do not think that even a number 1 would have 
given me pleasure after these twenty-four hours' 
humiliating uncertainty. They say joy is more deeply 
felt after anxiety. Such is not the case with me. 
Difficulties, doubts, and suffering spoil everything 
for me. 

Friday, March 30. — I worked until six o'clock; as 
it was still daylight I opened the door leading out 
into the balcony, in order to hear the church clock 
striking, and to breathe the spring air while I played 
upon the harp. 

I am very tranquil; I worked faithfully all day, 
after which I took a bath, dressed myself in white, 
and sat down and played upon the harp; now I am 
writing; I am calm, contented, and happy in this 
apartment arranged by myself, where I have every- 
thing I want at hand; it would be so pleasant to go 
on leading this life, — while waiting for fame. And 
even if fame were to come, I could sacrifice two 
months in the year to it, and live shut up in my room 
working the other ten months. And indeed it is 
only by so doing that those two months would be 
possible. What troubles me is to think that I must 
one day marry, but this is the only way in which 



1883.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 357 

to escape the wounds my self-love is constantly re- 
ceiving. 

"Why does she not marry?" people ask. They say 
I am twenty-five, and that enrages me; while if I 
were once married — but whom shall I marry? If I 
were only well, as before. But now if I marry, it 
must be some one who has a good heart and delicacy 
of feeling. And he must love me, for I am not rich 
enough to marry a man who would leave me entirely 
to myself. 

In all this it is not my heart that speaks. One 
cannot foresee everything; and then it would depend 
— And besides it may never happen. I have just re- 
ceived the following letter: 



"Palace of the Champs-Elysees. 

Association of French Artists for the An 

nual Exhibition of the Fine Arts. 



-i 



"Mademoiselle : 

"I write to you here in the committee room to in- 
form you that the Head in Pastel has had a genuine 
success with the committee. Receive my heartiest con- 
gratulations. I need not tell you that your paintings 
have been very well received. 

"You have met with a genuine success this year, 
which makes me very happy. 

"With friendly regards, 

"Tony Robert-Fleury." 

Well, and what then? The letter itself I shall pin 
down here, but I must first show it to a few friends. 
Do you imagine I am wild with joy? Not at all; I 
am quite calm. Doubtless I am not worthy of ex- 
periencing a great joy, since such a piece of news as 
this causes me no more emotion than if it were the 
most natural thing in the world. And the fact of the 
letter being addressed to me makes it lose much of 



358 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

its significance. If I knew that Breslau had received 
a letter like it I should be greatly troubled. This is 
not because I value only that which I do not possess, 
but because of my excessive modesty. I lack con- 
fidence in myself. If I were to take this letter 
literally, I should be too happy. When good fortune 
comes to me I am slow to believe in it. I fear to 
rejoice too soon. And after all the cause for re- 
joicing is not so great. 

Saturday, March 31, — Nevertheless I went to 
Julian's this morning, in order to hear a repetition 
of these flattering things. It seems Bouguereau said 
to him: "You have a Russian girl who has sent 
something that is not bad — not at all bad." "And you 
know," added Julian, "that this from Bouguereau, 
where one of his own pupils is not concerned, means 
a great deal." In short, it seems I shall receive some 
sort of mention. 

Sunday, April 1. ... I cough a great deal, and 
although I have not grown visibly thinner, I fear I 
am seriously ill. Only I don't want to think about it. 
But if I am seriously ill, why do I present so healthy 
an appearance in every way? 

I try to discover some cause for my sadness, and 
I can find none, unless it be that I have done nothing 
for the last fortnight. The statue is falling to pieces ; 
all this has made me lose a great deal of time. 

What vexes me is that the pastel should be thought 
so good, and the painting simply good. Well, then! 
I feel that I am capable now of producing something 
equally good in painting — and you shall see! 

I am not sad; but I am feverish, and I find diffi- 
culty in breathing. It is the right lung that grows 
worse, that is all. 



1883.J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 359 

Tuesday, April 3. — The weather is delightful ; I feel 
new strength. I feel that I possess the power to 
produce something really good; I feel it, I am sure 
of it. 

So, then, to-morrow. 

I feel within me the capacity to render with truth 
to nature whatever strikes my imagination. I feel 
a new force, a confidence in my own powers that 
will give me thrice the ability to work that I had 
before. I shall begin a picture to-morrow, the sub- 
ject of which charms me. I have another very in- 
teresting one for later in the autumn when the bad 
weather commences. I feel that now every stroke 
will tell, and I am intoxicated with the thought of 
my work. 

Red-letter day, Wednesday, April 4. — Six little boys 
in a group, their heads close together, half-length 
only. The eldest is about twelve, the youngest six. 
The oldest of the boys, who stands partly with his 
back to the spectator, holds a bird's nest in his hands, 
at which the others stand looking. The attitudes are 
varied and natural. 

The youngest boy, whose back only is to be seen, 
stands with folded arms and head erect. 

This seems commonplace, according to the descrip- 
tion, but in reality all these heads grouped together 
will make an exceedingly interesting picture. 

Sunday, April 15. — My malady has reduced me to 
a state of prostration that renders me indifferent to 
everything. Julian writes to say that my picture is 
not yet hung; that Tony Robert-Fleury cannot 
promise (sic) to have it hung on the line; but that, 
as it is not yet hung, all that can be done in the 
matter will be done. That Tony Robert-Fleury 
strongly (sic) hopes to receive some slight recom- 



360 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

pense in the shape of a painting (sic) or a pastel! 
Two months ago I had not expected anything of the 
kind, yet I am as indifferent to it all now as if I were 
not concerned in it. This mention, which I once 
thought it would make me faint with emotion to re- 
ceive, now that they tell me it is probable, almost 
certain indeed, will, I feel, cause me no emotion 
whatever. 

There is a logic in the events of life by which each 
event prepares us for that which is to follow; and 
this it is that diminishes my pleasure. I should have 
wished this news to come like a thunder-clap — I 
should have wished the medal to fall down from the 
skies, as it were, without giving time to cry out "Take 
care !" and plunge me in a sea of happiness. 

Wednesday, April 18. — If I receive a mention this 
year, I shall have progressed more rapidly than Bres- 
lau, who had already studied hard, before commencing 
with Julian. In short 

I have just been playing the piano. I began by 
playing the two divine marches of Chopin and 
Beethoven, and then went on playing whatever 
chanced to come into my head, — melodies so exquisite 
that I fancy I can hear them still. Is it not curious ! 
I could not play a single note of any one of them 
now, if I were to try, nor if I wished to improvise 
could I do so. The hour, the mood, a certain some- 
thing is necessary, yet the most heavenly harmonies 
are running through my head. If I had the voice I 
could sing the most ravishing, the most dramatic, the 
most original airs. To what end? Life is too short; 
it does not give one time to accomplish anything. I 
should like to take up sculpture, without giving up 
painting. Not that I wish to be a sculptor, but be- 
cause I have visions of the Beautiful which I feel 
an imperious necessity of giving form to. 



i88 3 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 361 

Sunday, April 22. — Two pastels only have received 
a number 1 — Breslau's and mine. Breslau's picture 
is not hung on the line, but her portrait of the 
daughter of the editor of Figaro is on the line. My 
picture is not on the line, either, but Tony Robert- 
Fleury assures me that it looks well, and that the 
picture under it is not a large one. The head of 
Irma is on the line, and in an angle — in a place of 
honor, consequently. In short, he says my pictures 
are well hung. 

We have people to dine with us almost every 
evening, and I often say to myself as I listen to their 
conversation, "Here are people who spend their lives 
doing nothing but making silly or artificial remarks. 
Are they happier than I?" Their cares are of a 
different nature, but they suffer as much. And they 
do not take as much enjoyment in everything as I 
do. Many things escape their notice — shades of 
language or of color, for instance, which to me are 
sources of interest or of pleasure, such as are un- 
known to vulgar souls. But perhaps I am more prone 
than most people to observe the beauties of nature, 
as well as the countless details of city life, and if 
it be true that I am in one sense inferior to the rest 
of the world, since I am occasionally unable to hear 
as well as others, perhaps I am not without some 
compensation for it. 

Ah, no ; every one knows it, and it is the first thing 
they say to each other when they mention my name. 
"She is a little deaf, did you know it?" I do not 
understand how I am able to write the word. Is it 
possible to accustom one's-self to so terrible an afflic- 
tion? It is conceivable that this should happen to an 
old man or to an old woman, or to some miserable 
creature, but not to a young girl like me, full of ardor, 
full of energy, eager for life! 



362 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASRK1RTSEFF. [1883. 

Friday, April 2j. — I think that in art a certain glow 
of enthusiasm may supply in some sort the want of 
genius. Here is a proof of this: it is six or seven 
years since I have played on the piano ; that is to say, 
I have remained for whole months without touching 
it, and then played five or six hours at a time once 
or twice a year. Under such circumstances the 
fingers lose their flexibility, so that I now never play 
before people; the merest school-girl would put me 
in the shade. 

But let me only hear a masterpiece played, like the 
march of Chopin, or that of Beethoven, for instance, 
let me be seized by the desire to play it myself, and 
in two or three days, practicing not more than an 
hour a day, I shall be able to play it perfectly, as 
well as any one, as Dusautoy, for instance, who took 
the first prize at the Conservatory, and who practices 
constantly. 

Monday, April 30. — I have had the happiness of 
talking with Bastien-Lepage. 

He has explained his Ophelia to me ! 

This man is not an ordinary artist. He does not 
regard his subject from the standpoint of an artist, 
merely, but from that of a student of human nature, 
also. His observations revealed an intimate knowl- 
edge of the most secret recesses of the soul ; he does 
not see in Ophelia a mad girl only, she is a lovelorn 
creature as well. In her madness there is disenchant- 
ment, bitterness, despair, hopelessness; she has been 
disappointed in love, and her disappointment has 
partly turned her brain. There can be nothing sadder, 
more touching, more heart-rending than this picture. 

I am wild about it. Ah, how glorious a thing is 
genius! This ugly little man appears to me more 
beautiful and more attractive than an angel. One 
would like to spend one's life listening to him and 



1883.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 363 

watching him in his sublime labors. And then he 
speaks so simply. In answer to a remark of some 
one he said, "I find so much poetry in nature," with 
an accent of such perfect sincerity that I was inex- 
pressibly charmed. 

I exaggerate, I feel that I exaggerate. But some- 
thing of this there is. 

Tuesday, May 1. — And the Salon ? Well, it is 
worse than usual. Dagnan does not exhibit. Sargent 
is mediocre; Gervex commonplace; Henner is charm- 
ing; his picture is a nude figure of a woman reading. 
The light is artificial, and everything is bathed in a 
sort of luminous mist, of so exquisite a tone that one 
feels as though enveloped in it. Jules Bastien ad- 
mires it greatly. A painting of Cazin's, that I like 
less than his landscape, is Judith departing from the 
city to meet Holo femes. I did not look at it long 
enough to come under its spell, but what struck me 
most forcibly in it was that the attractions of Judith 
are not sufficient excuse for Holofernes's infatuation. 

I am not very enthusiastic about Bastien-Lepage's 
picture. The two figures are faultless. The figure 
of the girl standing with her back to the spectator, 
the head, of which nothing is to be seen but one 
cheek, the hand playing with a flower — there is in all 
these a feeling, a poetical charm, and a truth to nature 
which cannot be surpassed. 

The back is a poem; the hand, of which we can 
just catch a glimpse, is a masterpiece; we feel all 
that he has desired to express. The girl bends down 
her head, and is at a loss as to what she shall do 
with her feet, which have assumed an attitude of 
charming embarrassment. The young man is very 
good also. But the girl is the embodiment of grace, 
of youth, of poetry. The figure is true to nature, 
and full of feeling, delicacy, and grace. 



364 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

The landscape, however, is altogether disagreeable. 
Not only is it of too pronounced a green, but it ob- 
trudes itself on the eye as well. There is a want 
of space. Why is this? Some say that the colors 
in the background are too thickly laid on. At all 
events it is heavy. 

And Breslau? Breslau's picture is good, but I am 
not quite pleased with it. It is well executed, but 
the picture expresses nothing ; the coloring is graceful, 
but common-place. It represents a group — a brunette 
and a blonde, and a young man — drinking tea at the 
fireside, in a bourgeois interior, without character. 
They all wear a solemn expression; the air of socia- 
bility we look for in such a scene is wanting. She 
who talks so much about sentiment does not appear 
to be very richly endowed in that respect. Her 
portrait is good, that is all. 

And I? 

Well, the head of Irma is pleasing, and the execu- 
tion sufficiently bold. But the picture is unpreten- 
tious. 

The painting has a somber look, and, although 
executed in the open air, it does not look natural. 
The wall is not like a wall — it is the sky, a piece of 
painted canvas, anything you choose. The heads are 
good; but the background is poor. They might have 
given it a better place, however, especially as things 
so inferior to it are on the line. Every one agrees 
that the heads— that of the elder boy, particularly — 
are very good. Probably I should have succeeded 
better with the rest of the picture, since the treatment 
is comparatively easy, if I had had more time. 

Looking at my picture hanging there before me 
I learned more than I could have learned in six 
months at the studio. The Salon is a great school; 
I never understood this as well as now. 



1883.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 365 

Wednesday, May 2. — I ought to go to the opera, 
but what for ? That is to say, I thought for a moment 
of doing so in order to show myself to the best 
advantage ; that Bastien might hear my beauty spoken 
of. And why do this ? I do not know. Well, it was 
a stupid thought! Is it not silly to try to make 
people like me whom I care nothing about, and that 
through pique? — I shall think of it, however, the 
rather as it would be in reality for the King of Prussia 
that I should go, for after all I have no serious cause 
of complaint against this great artist. Would I marry 
him? No. Well, then, what do I want? 

And why seek to analyze every sentiment so min- 
utely. I have a wild desire to please this great man, 
and that is all. And Saint-Marceaux as well. Which 
of them most? No matter which: either would do. 
It would be an interest in life. This feeling has given 
a new expression to my face. I look prettier; my 
complexion is smooth, fresh, and blooming; my eyes 
are animated and brilliant. At all events it is 
curious. What would not real love accomplish, if 
a silly fancy can produce an effect like this? 

After all, that is not the question. Jules Bastien 
dined with us this evening. I posed neither as a mad 
creature nor a child. I was neither silly nor mis- 
chievous. He was simple, gay, charming; we rallied 
each other incessantly; there was not an instant's 
embarrassment. He is very intelligent; and then I 
do not believe in specialties for men of genius ; a man 
of genius can be and ought to be everything he 
wishes. 

And he is gay too; I feared to see him insensible 
to that delicate humor that is half-way between wit 
and banter. In short, like Roland's mare, he has 
every quality; the only thing is that he is dead — 
or almost so, as far as I am concerned. Is it not 
stupid ? 



366 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

Sunday, May 6. — There has been a great deal of 
talk about young Rochegrosse's picture. It represents 
Astyanax being torn from the arms of his mother 
Andromache, to be cast over the ramparts. 

It is a modern and original treatment of an antique 
subject. He imitates no one and seeks inspiration 
from no one. The coloring and the execution are 
of unexampled vigor — there is no other artist of the 
present day who is capable of doing such work. In 
addition, he is the son-in-law of M. Th. de Banville, 
— so much for the press. 

Notwithstanding this latter fact, however, he has 
wonderful gifts. He is only twenty- four, and this is 
the second time he exhibits. 

This is the way one would like to paint — composi- 
tion, color, drawing, all are indescribably spirited. 

And this is the quality expressed by his name — 
Rochegrosse. It is like the rumbling of thunder. 
After the idyllic Bastien-Lepage, Georges Roche- 
grosse comes on you like a torrent. It is possible 
that later his talent may become more concentrated, 
and that he will aim at being a poet and psychologist 
in painting, like Bastien-Lepage. 

And I? What does my name express — Marie 
BashkirtsefT — I would willingly change it; it has a 
harsh, bizarre sound ; though it has a certain ring of 
triumph in it too; there is even a certain charm in 
it, something expressive of arrogance, of renown ; but 
it also has a quarrelsome, jerking sound. Tony 
Robert-Fleury — is it not cold as an epitaph? And 
Bonnat? — correct and vigorous but short and com- 
monplace. Manet sounds like something incomplete 
— a pupil who will be known at fifty. Breslau is 
sonorous, calm, powerful. Saint-Marceaux is like 
Bashkirtseff, nervous, but not so harsh. Henner is 
tranquil and mysterious, with an indescribable some- 
thing in it of antique grace. 



1883.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 367 

Carolus Duran is a mask. Dagnan is subtle, veiled, 
delicate, sweet, and strong, with little beyond this. 
Sargent makes one think of his painting, of the false 
Velasquez, of the false Carolus, not so great as Velas- 
quez, yet good, nevertheless. 

Monday, May 7. — I have begun the little gamins 
over again from the beginning. I have drawn them 
full-length, and on a larger canvas; this will make a 
more interesting picture. 

Tuesday, May 8.— I live only for my art; I go 
downstairs only to dine, and talk with no one. 

I feel that I am passing through a new phase. 

Everything seems petty and uninteresting, every- 
thing except my work. Life, taken thus, may be 
beautiful. 

Wednesday, May 9. — We had some visitors this 
evening, who were entirely different from our usual 
set and who would shock these very much, but whom 
I found very entertaining. 

Jules Bastien, who lays such stress on concentrating 
all one's forces on one particular point, does not, for 
his own part, expend his energy uselessly. For my- 
self, so superabundant are my energies that it is a 
necessity with me to have some outlet for them. Of 
course, if conversation or laughter fatigues one, it 
is better to abstain from them, but — he must be right, 
however. 

We went up to my studio, and I almost quarreled 
with Bastien to prevent him looking at my large pic- 
ture, the face of which was turned against the wall. 

I praised Saint-Marceaux extravagantly, and Jules 
Bastien declared he was jealous of him, and that he 
would never rest until he had ousted him from the 
place he holds in my regard. 



368 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

He has said this several times already; and al- 
though it may be only a jest, it delights me to hear 
him say it. 

I must make him think that I admire Saint-Mar- 
ceaux more than I admire him — in an artistic sense, 
of course. 

"You like him, do you not?" I said to him. 

"Yes, very much." 

"Do you like him as much as I do?' * 

"Oh, no ; I am not a woman. I like him, but '* 

"But it is not as a woman that I like him." 

"Oh, yes, there is a little of that in your admira- 
tion for him." 

"No, indeed, I assure you." 

"Oh, yes, unconsciously there is." 

"Ah, can you suppose " 

"Yes, and I am jealous of him; I am not dark and 
handsome, as he is." 

"He resembles Shakespeare." 

"You see!" 

The Bastien is going to hate me ! And why should 
he hate me? I do not know, but I fear that he will. 
There is always a certain feeling of hostility between 
us — little things one cannot explain, but that one 
feels. We are not in sympathy with each other; yet 
I have gone out of my way to say things before him 
that might perhaps — make him like me a little. 

In regard to art we think alike, but I dare not 
speak of art in his presence. Is this because I feel 
that he does not like me? 

In short, there is a something 

Friday, May 18. — To set my heart upon possessing 
the friendship of Bastien-Lepage would be to give 
too much importance to this feeling, to distort it, so 
to say, and to place myself, in my own eyes, in a 
false position. His friendship would have been a 



1883.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 369 

great pleasure to me, as Cazin's or Saint-Marceaux's 
would be; but I am vexed to think I should have let 
my thoughts dwell upon him personally — he is not 
sufficiently great for that. He is not a demigod in 
art, like Wagner, and it is only in such a case that 
it would be admissible to entertain a profound ad- 
miration for him. 

What I long for is to gather around me an in- 
teresting circle, but every time this hope seems about 
to be realized something happens to interfere; here 
is mamma gone to Russia, papa dying, perhaps. 

I had planned to give a dinner followed by a re- 
ception, everything Thursday, for instance, for society 
people, and on Saturday another dinner for artists; 
at the receptions on Thursdays I would have the 
most distinguished of the artists, who had dined with 
me on the previous Saturday. 

And now there is an end to all this; but I will 
try again next year to carry out my plan, as tran- 
quilly as if I were conscious of the power to succeed, 
as patiently as if I were to live forever, and as per- 
severingly as if I had been already successful. 

I am going to begin a panel — Spring: A woman 
leaning against a tree, her eyes closed, and smiling as 
if she were in a beautiful dream. Around is a deli- 
cate landscape — tender greens, faint rose-tints, apple 
and peach trees in blossom, budding leaves — all that 
gives to Spring its magic coloring. 

Bastien-Lepage is going to paint a picture repre- 
senting the burial of a young girl, and his views in 
art are so just that he will be sure to make the 
landscape like this that I have been dreaming of. I 
hope it will not prove so, however, and that he will 
give us a landscape of a vile green, instead — yet it 
would vex me if he did not make a sublime picture 
of this subject. 



370 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASBKIRTSEFF. [18S3. 

Sunday, May 20. — Mamma arrived in Russia early 
on Friday morning; we received a dispatch from her 
on Saturday in which she says that papa's health is 
in a deplorable state. 

To-day his valet writes that his condition is des- 
perate. He says, too, that he suffers greatly; I am 
glad mamma arrived in time. 

To-morrow the distribution of prizes takes place, 
and the Salon is to be closed for three days. On 
Thursday it will be reopened. 

I dreamed that I saw a coffin placed upon my bed, 
and that I was told a young girl was lying in it. 
And through the surrounding darkness glowed a 
phosphorescent light. 

Tuesday, May 22. — I worked till half-past seven; 
but at every noise I hear, every time the bell rings, 
every time Coco barks, my heart sinks into my boots. 
How expressive this saying is; we have it also in 
Russia. — It is nine o'clock and no news yet — how 
many emotions ! If 1 receive nothing, it will be very 
exasperating! They were all so sure of it at the 
studio — Julian, Lefebvre, and Tony have spoken so 
much of it among themselves, that it cannot be but 
that I shall receive something. In that case they 
might have telegraphed it to me; one can never hear 
good news too soon. 

Ah, if I had received anything I should have heard 
of it already. 

I have a slight headache. 

Not that it is of so much consequence, however; 
but every one was so sure of it — and then uncertainty 
about anything is odious. 

And my heart is beating, beating. Miserable ex- 
istence ! This, and everything else, and all for what ? 
To end in death ! 

No one escapes — this is the fate of all. 



i88 3 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 371 

To end, to end, to exist no longer — this is what 
is horrible. To be gifted with genius enough to last 
for an eternity — and to write stupid things with a 
trembling hand because the news of having received 
a miserable mention delays in coming. 

They have just brought me a letter ; my heart stood 
still for a moment — it was from Doucet about the 
waist of a dress. 

I am going to take some syrup of opium to calm 
my nerves. To see my agitation one would suppose 
I had been thinking about my Holy Women; the 
picture is all sketched in, and when I work on it or 
think of it, I am in the same state of agitation as 
at present. 

It is impossible for me to fix my thoughts upon 
anything. 

A quarter-past nine. It could not be that the dis- 
creet Julian should have committed himself as he has 
done, and that I should not receive it! But, then, 
this silence! 

My cheeks are burning; I feel as if I were en- 
veloped in flame: I have sometimes had bad dreams 
in which I have left like this. 

It is only twenty-five minutes past nine. 

Julian ought to have come before this ; he must 
have known at six o'clock; he would have come to 
dine with us — I have received nothing then. 

I thought that my picture would be refused when 
there was no possibility of that being the case. But 
that I should receive nothing now is very possible. 

I have just been watching the carriages as they 
passed. Ah, it is now too late! 

There is no medal of honor for painting, and Dalou 
will have received the medal for sculpture. 

What does this matter to me? 

Would I have given Bastien the medal of honor? 
No. He can do better than this "Amour au Village/' 



372 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

consequently he does not deserve it. They might 
have given it to him for his sublime "Jeanne d'Arc," 
the landscape in which displeased me three years ago. 
I should like to look at it again. 

Thursday, May 24. — I have received it ! And I am 
once more reassured and tranquil, not to say happy. 
I might say satisfied. 

I learned it from the papers. Those gentlemen 
have not taken the trouble to write me a word 
about it. 

Nothing is ever so good or so bad in reality as it 
is in the anticipation. 

Monday, June 11.—- My father is dead. 

We received the dispatch announcing his death at 
ten o'clock; that is to say, a few minutes ago. My 
aunt and Dina thought mamma ought to return here 
at once without waiting for the interment. I went 
to my room very much agitated, but I shed no tears. 
When Rosalie came to show me my new gown, how- 
ever, I said to her, "It is not worth while, Monsieur 
is dead," and I burst into an uncontrollable fit of 
weeping. 

Have I anything to reproach myself with concern- 
ing him? I do not think so. I have always tried to 
do my duty toward him. But in moments like these 
one always thinks one's-self in some way to blame. 
I ought to have gone with mamma. 

He was only fifty years old. And he had suffered 
so much! And he had never injured any one. He 
was beloved by all around him; he was strictly hon- 
orable in all his dealings, upright, and an enemy to 
all intrigue. 

Friday, June 15. — The Canroberts have written me 
a charming letter; indeed every one has shown me 
the greatest sympathy. 



1883.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 373 

This morning, not expecting to meet any one I 
knew, I ventured to go to the Petit hall — an exhibi- 
tion of a hundred masterpieces for a benefit of some 
kind, — of Decamps, Delacroix, Fortuny, Rembrandt, 
Rousseau, Millet, Meissonier (the only living artist 
represented) and others. And in the first place I 
must apologize to Meissonier, of whom I had little 
previous knowledge, and who had only very inferior 
compositions at the last exhibition of portraits. Yes, 
these are literally marvels of art. 

But what had chiefly induced me to leave my seclu- 
sion was the desire to see the paintings of Millet, of 
whom I had heretofore seen nothing, and whose 
praises were continually dinned into my ears. 
"Bastien is only a weak imitator of his," they said. 
Finally I was tempted to go. I looked at all his 
pictures, and I shall go back again to look at them. 
Bastien is an imitator of his, if you will, because both 
are great artists and both depict peasant life, and be- 
cause all genuine masterpeices bear a family resem- 
blance to each other. 

Cazin's landscapes resemble Millers much more 
closely than do those of Bastien. What is most ad- 
mirable in Millet, judging from the six paintings I 
saw at the Exhibition, is the general effect, the 
harmonious arrangement, the atmosphere, the trans- 
parency. The figures are unimportant and are simply 
treated, but broadly and correctly. And this it is in 
which Bastien has no equal to-day — the execution, 
at once careful, spirited and vigorous, of his human 
figures — his perfect imitation of nature. His "Soir 
au Village," which is only a sketch of small dimen- 
sions, is certainly equal to anything of the kind of 
Millet's; there are in it only two small figures dimly 
seen in the twilight. I cannot think of his "Amour 
au Village," however, with patience. How faulty is 
the background! How is it that he cannot see this? 



374 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

Yes, in the larger paintings of Bastien there is want- 
ing the tone, the general effect, that make the small 
pictures of Millet so remarkable. Whatever may be 
said to the contrary, everything else in the picture 
should be subordinate to the figure. 

"Le Pere Jacques" in its general effect is superior 
to "L'Amour au Village"; this is the case with "Les 
Foins," also. "Le Pere Jacques" is full of poetry; 
the girl gathering flowers is charming, and the old 
man is well executed. I know that it is extremely 
difficult to give a large picture that character, at once 
soft and vigorous, which is distinctive of Millet, but 
this is what must be aimed at; in a smaller picture 
many details may be slighted. I speak of those pic- 
tures in which the execution is everything (not of 
those of the over-scrupulous Meissonier), like those 
of Cazin, for example, who is the disciple of Millet. 
In a small picture that indescribable quality called 
charm, which is a result of the general effect rather 
than of any particular detail, may be given with a 
few happy strokes of the brush, while in a large 
picture this is not the case — there feeling must rest 
on a basis of science. 

Saturday, June 16. — So then, I withdraw from 
Bastien's paintings the title of masterpieces. And 
why? Is it because his "Amour au Village" shocks 
me, or because I have not the courage of my opinions ? 
We can only deify those who are no longer living; 
if Millet were not dead, what would be said of him? 
And then there are only six paintings of Millet's 
here. Could we not find six equally excellent paint- 
ings among those of Bastien? "Pas-meche," "Jeanne 
d'Arc," the portrait of his brother, the "Soir au 
Village," "Les Foins." I have not seen all his paint- 
ings, and he is not dead. Bastien is less the disciple 
of Millet than is Cazin, who resembles him greatly 



X873-1 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 375 

— with the difference that he is younger. Bastien is 
original; he is himself. One always imitates some 
one at first, but one's own personality gradually as- 
serts itself. And then poetry, vigor, and grace are 
always the same, and it would be disheartening, in- 
deed, if the attempt to attain them were to be called 
imitation. A picture of Millet fills you with admira- 
tion, one of Bastien's produces the same effect upon 
you; what does that prove? 

People of shallow minds say this is imitation; they 
are wrong; two different actors may move you in 
the same manner, because genuine and intense emo- 
tion is always the same. 

Etincelle devotes a dozen flattering lines to me. I 
am a remarkable artist. I am a young girl, and a 
pupil of Bastien-Lepage. Mark that! 

I saw a bust of Renan by Saint-Marceaux, and 
yesterday I saw Renan himself pass by in a fiacre. 
At least the likeness is good. 

Monday, June 18. — Here is a little incident: I had 
granted an interview for eleven o'clock this morning 
to the correspondent of the New Times (of St. 
Petersburg), who had written to me requesting one. 

It is a very important periodical; and this M. B 

has contributed to it, among other things, some 
studies on our painters in Paris, and — "as you 
occupy a conspicuous place among them, I hope you 
will permit me," etc. 

Before going downstairs I left him alone with my 
aunt for a few minutes, that she might prepare the 
way by telling him how young I was, and other things 
of the kind, for the sake of effect. He looked at 
all my pictures, and took notes of them. "When did 
I began to paint," he asked, "at what age, and under 
what circumstances?" and so on. I am an artist oa 



376 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

whom the correspondent of a great newspaper is go- 
ing to write an article. 

This is a beginning; it is the mention that has 
procured me this. Provided only that the article be 
a favorable one. I do not know if the notes were 
correct, because I did not hear all that was said, and 
then the situation was embarrassing. 

It was my aunt and Dina who told him — what? I 
shall await this article with anxiety — and it will not 
appear for a fortnight. 

They laid particular stress upon my youth. 

Thursday, June 21. — To-morrow the distribution 
of prizes takes place; they have sent me a list of the 
prizes to be given, with my name on it (section of 
painting) ; this is pleasant ; but I have some hesita- 
tion about being present — it is hardly worth while, 
and then if 

What am I afraid of? I cannot tell. 



Friday, June 22. — I thought for an instant, as I 
looked at the people present, that it would be terrible 
to rise and go forward to that table. 

My aunt and Dina were seated behind me on a 
bench, for only those who were to receive prizes had 
the right of chairs. 

Well, the day is at last over, and it was altogether 
different from what I had thought it would be. 

Oh, to receive a medal next year, and to realize 
my dreams at last! To be applauded, to achieve a 
triumph! And when I have received a second-class 
medal, no doubt I shall want a first-class one? Of 
course. 

And after that the cross? Why not? And after- 
ward? And afterward to enjoy the fruit of my 
labors, of my struggles, to go on working, to make 



1883.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 377 

as much progress as possible, to try to be happy, to 
love and be loved. 

Yes, afterward we shall see; there is no hurry. I 
shall be neither uglier nor older, so to say, in five 
years to come than I am to-day. And if I were to 
marry hastily now, I might repent it. But, after all, 
it is indispensable for me to marry; I am twenty-two 
years old, and people take me to be older; not that 
I look so, but when I was thirteen, when we lived in 
Nice, I was taken to be seventeen, and I looked it. 

In short, to marry some one who truly loved me; 
otherwise I should be the most unhappy of women. 
But it would be necessary that this some one should 
be at least a suitable parti. 

To be famous! illustrious! — that would settle 
everything. No, I must not expect to meet an ideal 
being who would respect me and love me, and who 
would, besides, be a good parti. 

Ordinary people are afraid of famous women, and 
geniuses are rare. 

June 24. — I have been thinking lately of the non- 
sensical things I used to write about Pietro. As, 
for instance, when I said that I always thought of 
him in the evenings, and that if he were to come to 
Nice unexpectedly I would throw myself into his 
arms. . And people thought I was in love with him — 
my readers may think so. 

And this has never, never, been the case. 

Yet often of a summer evening, when vague long- 
ings fill the soul, one feels that one would like to 
throw one's-self into the arms of a lover. This has 
happened to me a hundred times. But then this 
lover had a name, he was a real being whom I could 
call by his name — Pietro. But enough of Pietro! 

It was the idea of being the grandniece of the 



378 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

Cardinal, who might one day become Pope — but — 
nothing more. 

No, I have never been in love; and now I never 
shall be in love. A man must be very superior to 
other men to please me now that I have grown so 

exacting; he must be . And to fall in love with 

some young fellow, simply because he is charming — 
no, that can never be. 

Tuesday, July 3. — The picture does not go for- 
ward. I am in despair. And there is nothing to 
console me for it. 

At last the article in the New Times has appeared. 
It is very good, but it causes me some embarrass- 
ment, as it states that I am only nineteen, while I 
am older, and am taken to be even older than I am. 

But it will produce a great effect in Russia. 

And love — what of that? 

What is love? I have never experienced the emo- 
tion, for passing fancies founded on vanity cannot be 
called by that name. I have preferred certain per- 
sons because the imagination needs something with 
which to occupy itself. I have preferred them be- 
cause to do so was a necessity to my great soul, not 
because of their own merits. There was this differ- 
ence, and it is an enormous one. 

To turn to another subject — that of art ; I scarcely 
know how I am progressing in painting. I copy 
Bastien-Lepage, and that is deplorable. An imitator 
can never be the equal of the master he copies. One 
can never be great until one has discovered a new 
channel through which to express one's nature, a 
medium for the interpretation of one's own individual 
impressions. 

My art has ceased to exist. 

I can discern a trace of it in the "Holy Women"; 



1883.I JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 379 

but in what else? In sculpture it is different, but as 
for painting! 

In the "Holy Women" I imitate no one. And I 
think the picture will produce a great effect, not only 
because I shall try to execute the material part of 
the work with the utmost truth to nature, but also 
because of the enthusiasm with which the subject 
inspires me. 

The picture of the little boys reminds one of 
Bastien-Lepage, though the subject is taken from the 
street, and is a very commonplace, every-day one. 
But this artist always causes me an indescribable 
feeling of uneasiness. 

Saturday, July 14. — Have you read "L'Amour" of 
Stendhal? I am reading it. 

Either I have never been in love in my life, or I 
have never ceased to be in love with an imaginary 
being. Which is it? 

Read this book; it is even more delicate than any- 
thing of Balzac; it is more profoundly true, more 
harmonious, and more poetical. And it expresses 
divinely what every one has felt, what I myself have 
felt. But then I have always been too much given 
to analyzing my emotions. 

I was never really in love, except at Nice, when 
I was a child and ignorant of the world. 

And afterward when I had a sickly fancy for that 
horrible Pietro. 

I can remember moments alone in my balcony at 
Nice, listening to some delightful serenade, when I 
felt transported with ecstatic joy, without any other 
cause for it than was to be found in the hour, the 
scene, and the music. 

I have never experienced these feelings either in 
Paris or anywhere else, except in Italy. 



380 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

Friday, August 3. — Bastien-Lepage is enough to 
drive one to despair. When one studies nature 
closely, when one seeks to imitate her faithfully, it 
is impossible not to think constantly of the works of 
this great artist. 

He possesses the secret of rendering flesh with 
perfection; they talk of realism, but the realists do 
not know what reality is; they are coarse, and think 
they are natural. Realism does not consist in copying 
a vulgar thing, but in making the copy of whatever 
be represented an exact one. 

Sunday, August 5. — People say that I had a ro- 
mantic fancy for C , and that that is the reason 

I do not marry, for they cannot understand why, 
having a handsome dowry, I am yet neither a 
marquise nor a countess. 

Fools! Happily you, the few superior people who 
read me, you, my beloved confidants, know what to 
believe. But when you read these words, all those 

of whom I speak will probably be dead, and C 

will carry to the tomb the sweet conviction of having 
been loved by "a young and beautiful foreigner, who, 
enamoured of this cavalier," etc. Fool! Others also 
will believe it — fools! But you know very well that 
this is not the case. It would, perhaps, be romantic 
to refuse marquises for the sake of love; but it is 
reason, alas! that causes me to refuse them. 

Sunday, August 12. — The bare idea that Bastien- 
Lepage is coming here has made me so nervous that 
I have not been able to do anything. It is truly 
ridiculous to be so impressionable. 

Our Pope dined with us. Bastien-Lepage is very 
intelligent, but less brilliant than Saint-Marceaux. 

I showed him nothing of my work; I scarcely 
spoke; that is to say, I did not shine; and when 



1883.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 381 

Bastien-Lepage introduced an interesting subject I 
could not answer him, nor even follow his remarks, 
which were as terse and full of meaning as his paint- 
ings are. If it had been Julian, I should have taken 
the lead, for this is the style of conversation I like 
best. He is very well-informed, and has a keen in- 
tellect, while I had feared to find him in some measure 
ignorant. 

In short, when he said things to which I should 
have responded in such a way as to reveal the fine 
qualities of my head and heart, I let him go on speak- 
ing and remained silent. 

I can hardly write, so completely have the events 
of the day upset me. 

I desire to be alone, completely alone, so as to 
commune with myself regarding the impression he 
made upon me, which was profound and interesting; 
ten minutes after his arrival I had mentally capitu- 
lated and acknowledged his mastery. 

I did not say a single word that I ought to have 
said; he is indeed a god, and he is conscious of his 
power; and I have contributed to strengthen him in 
this belief. He is small, he is ugly, in the eyes of a 
vulgar crowd, but for me and for people like me 
he has a charming countenance. What is his opinion 
of me ? I was embarrassed ; I laughed too frequently ; 
he says he is jealous of Saint-Marceaux. What a 
triumph ! 

Tuesday, August 21. — No, I shall not die until I 
am about forty, like Mile. Colignon. At thirty-five 
I shall grow very ill, and at thirty-six or thirty-seven, 
a winter in bed, and all will be over. 

And my will? All I shall ask in it will be a statue 
and a picture, the one by Saint-Marceaux, the other 
by Jules Bastien-Lepage, placed in a conspicuous posi- 
tion in a chapel in Paris, and surrounded by flowers; 



382 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

and on each anniversary of my death that a mass of 
Verdi or of Pergolesi, and other music, may be sung 
by the most celebrated singers in remembrance of me. 

Besides this, I shall found a prize for artists of 
both sexes. 

I should, indeed, prefer to live, but as I am not 
gifted with genius, it is better that I should die. 

Wednesday, August 29. — Notwithstanding the heat, 
I cough continually, and, as I was reclining half- 
asleep on the divan this afternoon, while my model 
was resting, I had a vision in which I saw myself 
lying on a couch, with a large wax taper standing 
lighted beside me. 

That will be the denouement of all these miseries. 

To die? I greatly fear so. 

And I do not wish to die; it would be horrible. I 
don't know how the case may be as regards happy 
people, but as for me, I am greatly to be pitied, since 
I have ceased to expect anything from God. When 
this supreme refuge fails us there is nothing left us 
but to die. Without God there can be neither poetry, 
nor affection, nor genius, nor love, nor ambition. 

Thursday, September 13. — Stendhal says that our 
sorrows seem less bitter when we idealize them. This 
observation is a very just one. But how shall I 
idealize mine? It would be impossible! They are 
so bitter, so prosaic, so frightful, that I cannot speak 
of them, even here, without suffering horribly. How 
say that at times I cannot hear well? Well, the will 
of God be done! This phrase recurs to my mind 
involuntarily, and I have almost come to feel it. For 
I shall die, quite naturally and peacefully, notwith- 
standing all the care I can bestow upon myself. And 
this would be as well, for I am troubled about my 
eyes; for a fortnight past I have been able neither 



i88 3 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 383 

to paint nor to read, and I am growing no better. 
I feel a throbbing sensation in them, and little dark 
specks seem to float before me in the air. 

Perhaps this is because I have been suffering for 
the last fortnight from a bronchial cold, which would 
have made any one else take to bed, but notwithstand- 
ing which I go about as usual, as if nothing were the 
matter. 

I have worked on Dina's portrait in* so tragical a 
mood that I shall have more gray hairs when I am 
done with it. 

Saturday, September 15. — This morning I went to 
the Salon to see Bastien's pictures. What shall I 
say of them? Nothing could be more beautiful. 
There are three portraits which, according to Julian, 
who dines with us this evening, are the despair of 
artists. Yes, the despair. Never has there been any- 
thing done to equal them. They are life-like; they 
are endowed with soul. The execution is so admirable 
that there is nothing to be compared to it : it is nature 
itself. One must be mad to go on painting after 
seeing these. 

There is also a little picture called "Les bles 
murs." A man with his back to the spectator is reap- 
ing. The picture is good. 

There are two pictures life-size. "Les Foins" and 
"Les Ramasseuses de pommes de terre." 

What coloring! What composition! What execu- 
tion! There is a richness of tone in them that is 
to be found only in nature itself. And the figures 
live! 

The tones blend into one another with a simplicity 
which is the perfection of art, and the eye follows 
each with genuine delight. 

When I entered the room I was not aware that 
the picture was there, but the moment I saw "Les 



384 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

Foins" I stopped short before it, as one stops before 
a window that is suddenly opened, and discloses a 
beautiful landscape to the view. 

They do not do him justice; he is immeasurably 
superior to every one else. There is no one to be 
compared to him. 

I am very, very ill; and I have applied an im- 
mense blister to my chest. After that, doubt my 
courage and my desire to live, if you can. No one 
knows of it, however, except Rosalie; I walk up and 
down my studio, I read, I chat, I sing, and my voice 
is almost beautiful. As I often spend Sunday with- 
out working, this surprises no one. 

Tuesday, September 18. — It seems that the notice 
taken of me by the Russian press has drawn the 
attention of many people to me — that of the Grand 
Duchess Catherine among others. Mamma is in- 
timately acquainted with her grand chamberlain and 
his family, and the question of appointing me to the 
post of maid of honor has been seriously discussed. 

I must first be presented to the Grand Duchess, 
however. Everything has been done that could be 
done in the matter, but mamma was wrong to let 
things take their course, and return here. 

And then — my belle-ame demands a sister-soul. I 
shall never have a friend. Claire says I can never 
have a girl friend because I have none of the little 
secrets and love-affairs that other girls have. 

"You are too proper," she says ; "you have nothing 
to conceal." 

Monday, October 1. — We were present at the cere- 
monies which took place to-day on the removal to 
Russia of the remains of Tourgenieff, our great 
writer, who died a fortnight ago. Afterward we 
went to the Salon. I could not refrain from a burst 



I873-] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 385 

of enthusiasm (inward enthusiasm, however, for I 
feared they might think me in love with him), as I 
looked at the paintings of Bastien-Lepage. 

Meissonier? Meissonier is nothing but a presti- 
digitator! He paints pictures with figures so minute 
that one would need to look at them through a 
microscope, and that cause one so much surprise that 
the feeling might almost be taken for admiration. 
But as soon as he departs from this minute style, 
when his heads are more than a centimetre long, his 
manner becomes hard and commonplace. But no one 
dares to say this, and every one admires him, al- 
though all his pictures for the Salon are merely good 
and correct. 

But is this art, — to paint people in costume who 
play on the harpsichord or ride on horseback? For 
after all many genre painters can do as much as this. 

Those of his paintings that I have seen that are 
really admirable are, in the first place, the "J oueurs 
de boules sur la route d'Antibes" ; it is a scene copied 
from the life, although the costumes are antique; 
and is luminous and transparent; next his father and 
himself, on horseback; then the "Graveur a l'eau- 
forte"; the movement and expression have been 
seized and depicted with truth. This man, absorbed 
in his own thoughts, carried away by them seem- 
ingly, touches and interest us, and the details are won- 
derful. There is also another picture, of the same 
size, a cavalier of the time of Louis XIII., looking 
out of a window; the composition in this is also 
good; the action is human, natural, simple — it is a 
bit of real life, in short. 

Those of his pictures in which the heads are as 
much as two centimetres long are merely cartoons, 
and the larger his figures are the worse they are. 

I pay my tribute to his genius and pass on; he 
does not touch my feelings. But look at the portraits 



386 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

of Bastien-Lepage ! Most people would make an out- 
cry if I were to say that they are much better than 
those of Meissonier. And yet such is the fact. There 
is nothing that can be compared to the portraits of 
Bastien-Lepage. Object to his other paintings if you 
will — you do not understand them, perhaps — but his 
portraits! Nothing better of the kind has ever been 
done. 

Saturday, October 6. — I have just read, at one sit- 
ting, a novel in French by our illustrious Tourgenieff, 
so as to be able to form an idea of the impression 
his books make upon foreigners. He is a great 
writer, a man of subtle intellect, an acute reasoner, 
a poet, a Bastien-Lepage. His descriptive passages 
are beautiful, and he interprets the most delicate 
shades of feeling in words as Bastien-Lepage in- 
terprets them in color. 

And Millet — what a sublime artist! Well, he is 
as poetic as Millet. I use this foolish phrase for the 
benefit of those imbeciles who would otherwise be 
unable to understand me. 

Whatever is grand, poetical, beautiful, subtle, or 
true in music, in literature, or in art reminds me of 
this wonderful artist and poet. He chooses subjects 
that are considered vulgar by fashionable people, and 
he extracts from them the most exquisite poetry. 

What can be more commonplace than a little girl 
guarding a cow or a woman working in the fields? 
"But these have been already treated," you will say. 
Yes, but no other artist has ever treated them as he 
has done. He did well to choose them; in a single 
picture he has given us a romance of three hundred 
pages. But there are perhaps not more than fifteen 
of us who understand him. 

Tourgenieff, also, has depicted peasant-life — the 
life of the poor Russian peasant; and with what 



i88 3 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 387 

truth, what simplicity, what sincerity! And how 
moving is the picture he has drawn, how poetic, how 
grand ! 

Unfortunately this can be appreciated only in 
Russia, and it is chiefly in these social studies that 
he excels. 

Monday, October 22. — I should be well pleased if 
my malady proved to be an imaginary one. 

It seems that at one time it was fashionable to 
have consumption, and that people tried to make it 
appear, and even to persuade themselves, that they 
had it. Ah, if it might turn out that this disease 
of mine were an imaginary one! I desire to live in 
any case, and despite of everything. I have neither 
love-sorrows, nor sentimental reasons, nor any other 
cause, to make me wish to die. I desire to achieve 
fame, and to enjoy whatever happiness is to be en- 
joyed on this earth. 

Monday, November 5. — The leaves have all fallen, 
and I do not know how I shall be able to finish my 
picture. I have no luck. Luck! How formidable 
a thing is luck! What a mysterious and terrible 
power ! 

Ah, yes, it must be finished, but finished quickly, 
quickly! — in a fortnight. And then to astonish 
Robert- Fleury and Julian by showing it to them. 

If I could do this, it would give me new life. I 
suffer because I have done nothing of any conse- 
quence this summer; I experience the most frightful 
remorse. I should like to define my condition with 
more exactness — I am altogether without strength, as 
it were, and at the same time I am profoundly calm. 
I fancy that one who has just lost a great deal of 
blood might feel as I do now. 

I have taken my resolution — I shall wait until May, 



388 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

And why should this state of things change in May? 
After all, who knows? 

This has made me think of whatever virtues or 
talents I may possess, and I find a source of secret 
consolation in these thoughts. It has made me take 
part in the conversation, at dinner, with my family, 
like any other person — amiably, and with a calm and 
dignified air such as I had on the day I first wore 
my hair turned up. 

In short, I experience a feeling of profound tran- 
quillity. I shall pursue my work with calmness; it 
seems to me that henceforth all my actions must be 
tranquil, and that I shall regard the universe with 
gentle condescension. 

I am calm as if I were, or perhaps because I am, 
strong ; and patient, as if I were certain of the future. 
— And who knows? I feel myself in truth invested 
with a new dignity; I have confidence in myself; I 
am a power. Then — what? May not this be love? 
No; but outside that feeling I see nothing that could 
interest me. This is what was needed, mademoiselle, 
devote yourself entirely to your art. 

When I see myself famous in imagination it is as 
if I were dazzled by a flash of lightning, as if I had 
come in contact with an electric battery ; I start from 
my seat, and begin to walk up and down the room. 

It may be said that if I had been married at seven- 
teen I should be like every one else. This is a mis- 
take. In order that I should marry like any one else 
it would be necessary for me to be some one else. 

Do you think that I have ever loved! I do not 
think so. These passing fancies look like love; but 
they could not have been love. 

I still continue to feel this excessive weakness; I 
might compare myself to an instrument of which the 
cords are relaxed. What is the cause of this ? Julian 
says that I remind him of an autumn landscape, a 



1883.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 389 

desolate and deserted walk enveloped in the fogs of 
winter. Just what I am, my dear monsieur. 

Monday, November 12.— Drumont, of La Liberie, 
is coming to see us. He detests the style of painting 
I have chosen, but he paid me a great many com- 
pliments at the same time that he asked me in aston- 
ishment how it was that I, living as I do, in the midst 
of elegant and refined surroundings, should love the 
ugly. He thinks my little boys ugly. 

"Why did you not choose pretty ones?'* he said; 
"they would have answered the same purpose." 

I chose expressive faces, if I may dare to say so. 
And then one does not see much miracles of beauty 
among the little boys who run about the streets; for 
those it would be necessary to go to the Champs 
Elysees, and paint some of the poor little be-ribboned 
babies who are to be seen there, guarded by their 
nurses. 

Where, then, is action to be found? Where the 
savage liberty of primitive times? Where true ex- 
pression? For even the children of the better classes 
study effect. 

And then — in short, I am right. 

Thursday, November 22. — The Illustration Uni- 
verselle (of Russia) has reproduced my painting 
("Jean et Jacques") on its first page. 

This is the most important of the illustrated papers 
of Russia, and I am, so to speak, at home in it. 

And I am not overjoyed at this? Why should I 
be ? It pleases me, but I am not overjoyed on account 
of it. 

And why not? Because this is not enough to 
satisfy my ambition. If I had received a mention two 
years ago, I should have fainted from emotion; if 
they had given me a medal last year, I should have 



390 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

shed tears of joy upon the breast of Julian. But now 
— Alas! all the events of life follow one another in 
logical order; they are all linked together, and each 
prepares us for the one which is to follow. If I 
receive a third-class medal next year, it will seem 
nothing more than natural; if they give me nothing, 
I shall be indignant. 

One never rejoices greatly at any event except when 
it comes unexpectedly — when it is in some sort a 
surprise. 

Saturday, December 1. — After all, may I not have 
been deceiving myself all this time? Who will give 
me back the most beautiful years of my life — wasted, 
perhaps, in vain! 

But there is a sufficient answer to these vulgar 
doubts of mine in the fact that I had nothing better 
to do ; besides, anywhere and everywhere, leading the 
same life as others I should have had too much to 
suffer. And then I should not have attained that 
moral development which confers upon me a supe- 
riority so embarrassing — to myself. Stendhal had 
come in contact with at least one or two persons 
capable of understanding him, while I, unfortunately 
for myself, find every one insipid; and even those 
whom I expected to find intelligent, I find stupid. Is 
this because I am what is called misunderstood? 
No ; but I feel that I have reason to be surprised and 
dissatisfied when people think me capable of things 
which reflect upon my dignity, my delicacy, my 
elegance, even. 

You see what I want is some one who should un- 
derstand me completely, to whom I could confide 
everything, and in whose words I should see my own 
thoughts reflected. — Well, my child, this would be 
love. 

That may be, but without going so far — people 



1883-1 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 391 

who would be able to form an intelligent opinion 
concerning one, and whom one might talk to — even 
that would be pleasant; and I know no such person. 
The only one I knew was Julian, and he is growing 
every day more disagreeable; he is even exasperating 
when he begins with his tiresome, teasing insinuations, 
especially in matters relating to art. He does not 
understand that I am not blind, and that I mean to 
succeed; he thinks me infatuated with myself. 

After all, though, he is still at times my confidant. 
As far as an absolute parity of sentiments is con- 
cerned, that does not exist, except between lovers! 
It is love, then, that works the miracle. But may it 
not be rather this absolute parity of sentiments that 
gives birth to love? — The sister-soul. — As for me I 
find this image, which has been so much abused, a 
very just one. But who is this sister-soul? Some 
one, not even the tip of whose ear can one catch 
sight of. 

It would be necessary that not a word, not a 
look, of his should be at variance with the idea I 
have formed of him. Not that I demand in him 
an impossible perfection, or that he should be a being 
superior to humanity; but I require that his caprices 
should be interesting caprices that would not lower 
him in my eyes ; that he should be in conformity with 
my ideal — not the hackneyed ideal of an impossible 
demigod, but that everything in him should please 
me, and that I should not Unexpectedly discover in 
him some stupid, dull, weak, foolish, mean, false, or 
mercenary trait; one such blemish only, no matter 
how small it might be, would be sufficient to ruin 
him in my eyes. 

Sunday, December 2. — In short, my heart is abso- 
lutely empty, empty, empty. But I must indulge in 
these dreams in order to amuse myself. I have ex- 



392 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

perienced almost all those feelings which Stendhal 
mentions, however, apropos of true love, which he 
calls passionate love — those innumerable caprices of 
the imagination; those childish follies of which he 
speaks. Thus I have often seen the most hateful 
people with pleasure, because they had chanced to 
be near the beloved object on that particular day. 

Besides, I think that no one, whether man or 
woman, who is always busy, or who is constantly 
preoccupied by the thought of fame, can love like 
one who has nothing but love to think of. 

Monday, December 3. — I am intelligent, I give my- 
self credit for wit, for penetration, for every in- 
tellectual quality in fact, and I am unprejudiced. 
Well, having these conditions, why should I not be 
able to form a clear judgment of myself? 

Have I really any talent for, or shall I really ever 
be anything in art? What is my unbiassed opinion 
concerning myself? 

These are terrible questions — because I think little 
of myself compared with the ideal to which I strive 
to attain — compared with others, however 

But one cannot form a correct judgment about 
one's-self, and then — since I am not a genius — and I 
have never produced anything that could enable any 
one — even myself — to form a correct judgment about 
me. 

Monday, December 10. — Hundreds of people whose 
names are never heard of accomplish as much as I 
have done, and never complain that they have no 
outlet for their genius. If you find yourself embar- 
rassed by your genius, it is because you have none; 
any one who has genius will have the strength to 
support it. 

The word genius is like the word love; I found 



1883.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 393 

difficulty in writing it for the first time, but, when 
I had once written it, I made use of it at all times 
and on all occasions afterwards. It is the same as 
with many other things which at first appear huge, 
terrible, or unattainable — once you become familiar 
with them you abandon yourself to them completely 
so as to make up for all your former hesitations and 
fears. This spirituelle observation does not appear 
to me to be very lucid, but I must expend my energy. 
I worked until seven, but as there is still some of it 
remaining, I must let it flow from the point of my 
pen. 

I am growing thin. Well — God be merciful to me! 

Sunday, December 23. — True artists can never be 
happy; they are conscious, in the first place, that the 
majority of people do not understand them; they 
know they are working for a hundred people or so, 
and that all the others follow their own bad taste, 
or the opinions of Figaro. 

The ignorance that prevails among all classes re- 
specting everything that pertains to art is frightful. 

Those who speak understanding^ of art, for the 
most part repeat the opinions which they have heard 
or read of those who are considered competent 
judges in the matter. 

But I think there are days when one feels those 
things more acutely — days when nonsensical talk is 
especially insupportable; when foolish observations 
cause one actual suffering; and to hear people ex- 
changing for hours silly remarks that have not even 
the merit of sprightliness, or the varnish of fashion 
to recommend them, is a positive affliction. 

And observe that I am not one of those superior 
beings who shed tears when they are compelled to 
listen to the hackneyed phrases of the drawing-room 
—its affectations, its stereotyped compliments, its re- 



394 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1883. 

marks about the weather or the Italian opera. I am 
not foolish enough to require that all conversation 
should be interesting, and to hear the commonplace 
talk of society, lively, it is true, at times, but more 
often dull, does not disturb my tranquillity in the 
least. I can submit to it, occasionally, even with 
pleasure; what I have reference to is real folly, real 
stupidity, a lack of — in short, the commonplace con- 
versation of people who are not only worldly but 
stupid. 
To listen to this is like being burned at a slow fire. 

Monday, December 31. — The Marechale and Claire 
dined yesterday with the Princess Mathilde, and 
Claire tells me that Lefebvre said to her of me that 
I had undoubted talent, that I was a very uncommon 
person, that I went a great deal into society, and 
that, in addition to this, I was watched over and 
directed by a celebrated painter (this with a meaning 
look). 

Claire (looking at him fixedly) : "What celebrated 
painter ? Julian ? Lefebvre ?" 

"No, Bastien-Lepage." 

Claire: "Oh, you are entirely mistaken, monsieur; 
she works all the time, and goes out very little. As 
to Bastien-Lepage, she sees him nowhere except in 
her mother's drawing-room; he never goes up to her 
studio." 

Claire is a love of a girl, and she said nothing but 
what is true, for God is my witness that this Jules 
gives me no assistance whatever. Lefebvre, however, 
looked as if he thought he did. 

It is two o'clock in the morning; the new year has 
begun, and at midnight, at the theater, with my watch 
in my hand, I made a wish in one single word — a 
word that is grand, sonorous, beautiful, intoxicating, 
whether it be written or spoken — Fame ! 



i88 4 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 395 



l88+. 

My Aunt Helene, my father's sister, died a week 
ago. Paul telegraphed the news to us. 

We received another telegraphic dispatch to-day: 
my Uncle Alexander has just died of apoplexy; the 
news was a great shock to us; he was devoted to 
his family, and loved his wife to distraction. As he 
had never read Balzac, nor indeed any other novelist, 
perhaps, he knew but little about the romantic phrases 
employed by lovers to express their affection ; certain 
words of his, however, I remember, to recall which 
now makes me feel all the greater sorrow for his 
death. On one occasion some one tried to make him 
believe that his wife was receiving the attentions of 
a neighbor, and I remember to have heard him say: 
"Well, suppose this infamous thing they tell me were 
true! Is not my wife, whom I have lived with for 
fifteen years, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, 
soul of my soul? Are we not one? If I had com- 
mitted a fault, would I not forgive myself for it? 
Why then should I not forgive my wife? Not to 
do so would be like plucking out one of my eyes, 
or cutting off an arm." 

Friday, January 4. — It is true, then; I have con- 
sumption, and the disease is far advanced. 

I feel very ill ; I have said nothing about it, but I 
have fever every night. 

Saturday, January 5. — The opening of the Manet 
Exhibition at the School of Fine Arts takes place 
to-day. 

I am going to it. 

It is not quite a year since Manet died. I do not 



396 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

know a great deal about him. The collection, take 
it all in all, is a remarkable one. 

It is at once childish, extravagant, and grand. 

There are some absurd things among the pictures, 
but there are also some that are magnificent. A little 
more and Manet would have been a great painter. 
The pictures are, in general, repulsive ; some of them 
are altogether out of drawing; but all are life-like. 
There are some splendid sketches among them; and 
even in the most faulty of the pictures there is a 
something that rivets the attention, and almost calls 
forth admiration — they reveal so evident a self- 
confidence on the part of the artist, so profound a 
belief in his own powers, joined to an ignorance no 
less profound. They are such pictures as a great 
genius might have produced in his childhood. And 
then there are things copied almost exactly from 
Titian (the sketch of the female figure and the negro, 
for instance), Velasquez, Courbet, and Goya. But 
then all these painters stole from each other. And 
has not Moliere taken whole pages from other authors ? 

Monday, January 14. — I feel as if I myself had been 
at Davillers, Emile Bastien has told us so much about 
it — about the picture, his brother's manner of life, 
etc. According to him, if the artist has not invited 
us to see the studies painted by him at Concarneau, 
it is because he never invites any one to see his paint- 
ings. He even thinks it would be a mark of conceit 
on his part to ask any one to go look at a few unim- 
portant studies made while he was resting in the 
country; and finally, he says he thought from the 
friendliness we showed him that he might be dis- 
pensed from using ceremony; that he would have 
been delighted to see us if we had gone there, etc. 
He says, that, even in the case of his more important 
paintings, he never invites any one to see them; he 



i88 4 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 397 

merely requests his brother to let his intimate friends 
know when he has finished one. 

But here is something more serious t when his 
brother spoke to him of my picture Ke said: "Why 
did you not tell me of it when I was in Paris? I 
would have gone to see it." 

"I told him nothing about it in Paris," his brother 
added, "because if he had gone to look at it, you 
would have hidden everything away, according to your 
custom ; he has never seen any of your pictures except 
those you exhibited at the Salon. Do you know that 
he will never care to look at your pictures if you 
continue to act in this way ?" 

"He will, if I wish it — if I ask him to give me his 
advice." 

"He will be always delighted to give you his advice," 
he said. 

"But unfortunately I am not a pupil of his." 

"And why are you not ? He would ask for nothing 
better; he would feel very much flattered if you 
consulted him, and he would give you judicious advice 
— disinterested advice ; he has a correct judgment, and 
is not prejudiced in favor of any school, and he would 
be delighted to have so interesting a pupil. I assure 
you it would please and flatter him very much." 

Wednesday, January 16. — The architect has told me 
that there is a painting of the "Shepherds at Beth- 
lehem" among his brother's pictures. For the last 
two days my head has been filled with this subject; 
so strong is the impression it has produced in my 
mind that I can compare it to nothing else than the 
feeling entertained by the shepherds themselves — a 
blending of holy enthusiasm and profound adoration. 

Can you not already imagine with what mystery, 
what tenderness, what sublime simplicity, he will in- 
vest this subject? One who is familiar with his 



398 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884; 

paintings can do so, in some measure, by observing 
the mysterious and fantastic resemblance that exists 
between the "Jeanne d'Arc" and the "Soir au Village" 
— the effect of both which pictures will be in some 
sort reproduced in the "Shepherds." But perhaps you 
think it absurd of me to grow enthusiastic about a 
painting that I have never seen — that is not even yet 
in existence? Well, let us suppose that in the eyes 
of the majority of people I appear ridiculous by doing 
so, there will always be a few dreamers who will 
take my part; and, if need were, I could do without 
even those, 

"Jeanne d'Arc" has never been appreciated in 
France; in America it was enthusiastically admired. 
The "Jeanne d'Arc," both in composition and in senti- 
ment, is a masterpiece. 

The reception it met with in Paris was a disgrace 
to the French people. 

Are only the "Phaedras" and the "Auroras," then, 
to meet with success? Neither Millet, Rousseau, nor 
Corot were admired by the public until after they had 
become famous. 

What is most to be deplored, in our day, is the 
hypocrisy of the enlightened few who affect to see 
nothing either serious or elevated in modern art, and 
who exalt to the skies those painters who follow the 
traditions of the old masters. Is it necessary to point 
out and insist upon the fallacies involved in these 
views of art? What then is high art if it be not the 
art which, while it renders the flesh, the dress, and 
the landscapes with such perfection that we want to 
touch them, so to speak, to see if they be real, endows 
them at the same time with soul, with spirit, and 
with life. The "Jeanne d'Arc" they say is not high 
art because the artist depicts his subject, not clad in 
armor and with the white and delicate hands of a 



i38 4 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 309 

lady, but as a peasant girl and in the midst of homely 
surroundings. 

Stupid or dishonest critics praise the "Amour au 
Village," which is inferior to the "Jeanne d'Arc," 
with the purpose of making it appear that the artist 
excels only in this style, indignant that a painter who 
has made peasant life a study should take it into his 
head to paint anything else — to paint a peasant famous 
in history, for instance, like the "Jeanne d'Arc." 

Pharisees and hypocrites ! 

For, after all, any artist can paint flesh, but who 
can portray the soul within, the divine spark, as he 
has done? No one. In the eyes of his characters 
I can read their lives; I almost think I know them. 
I have tried to feel this in looking at other paintings, 
but without success. 

Who would prefer as a subject for a painting the 
execution of a Lady Jane Grey or a Bajazet to some 
little girl who looks at you with clear and animated 
glance as you pass her by in the street? 

This great artist possesses a quality which is to be 
met with only in the religious paintings of the Italians 
at a time when artists were also believers. 

Has it never happened to you, on finding yourself 
alone of an evening in the country, under a clear and 
cloudless sky, to feel your being pervaded by a mys- 
terious longing — a vague aspiration toward the In- 
finite; to feel yourself, as it were, on the threshold 
of some great event, some supernatural occurrence? 
Were you never, in your dreams, transported into un- 
known regions? 

If not you would seek in vain to understand Bastien- 
Lepage, and I advise you to buy an "Aurora" by 
Bouguereau or a historical picture by Cabanel. 

And all this is in order to say that I worship the 
genius of Bastien-Lepage ? 

Yes. 



400 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

Sunday, January 20. — -It is a sad confession to 
make, but I have no woman friend : there is no woman 
who loves me or whom I love. 

I am well aware that if I have no such friend, 
it is because I allow it to be seen, without intending 
it, from what a height "I survey the crowd." 

No one likes to be humiliated. I might console 
myself by the reflection that truly great natures are 
never loved. Such persons are surrounded by wor- 
shipers who bask in the sunshine of their fame, but 
who, at heart, hate them and disparage them when 
the opportunity to do so presents itself. They are 
talking just now of erecting a statue to Balzac, and 
the newspapers are filled with recollections of the 
great man contributed by his friends. Such friends 
are a disgrace to humanity. 

They vie with one another to see which will be 
foremost in dragging before the public view his most 
secret faults and foibles. I would rather have such 
people as those for my enemies than for my friends. 
At least their slanders would in that case be less likely 
to be believed. 

Saturday, February 23. — -At about one o'clock the 
Marechale and Claire came to meet Madeleine 
Lemaire, who wished to see my picture. This lady, 
besides being a woman of society, is also a celebrated 
artist in water-colors, and obtains very good prices 
for her pictures. Of course she said only flattering 
things of my picture. 

I think I must be going to die soon, for my whole 
life, with all its stupid details, rises before me — 
details that it makes me shed tears of rage to re- 
member. It has never been my habit to go to balls, 
like other girls. I would go to one occasionally — 
three or four times a year perhaps. For the last two 



i88 4 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 401 

years, when I no longer cared to do so, I might have 
gone as often as I chose. 

And is it I, you ask, whose ambition it is to become 
a great artist, who regret not having been allowed 
to go to balls more often? Indeed, yes. And what 
are my regrets for now? Not for balls, but there are 
other reunions where one may meet thinkers, authors, 
artists, singers, men of science — all those who con- 
stitute the world of intellect, in short. The most 
rational, the most philosophical person in the world 
need not be ashamed of desiring to meet once a week, 
or once a fortnight, persons who are the flower of 
Parisian intellect. I have always been unfortunate 
in everything! Through my own merits I have suc- 
ceeded in becoming acquainted with the best people 
in Paris, and only to be humiliated. 

I am too unhappy not to believe in a God who could 
take pity upon me if he would; but if there were 
indeed a God, would He allow such injustice to exist ? 
What have I ever done that I should be as unhappy 
as I am? 

It is not in the God of the Bible that I can believe, 
however. The Bible is a narrative of primitive times, 
in which all that relates to God is treated from the 
point of view of a child. The only God I can believe 
in is the God of philosophy — an abstract being — the 
Great Mystery — earth, heaven, the universe, Pan. 

But this is a God who can in no way help us; this 
is a God on whom our thoughts may dwell in adora- 
tion as we look up to the stars at night, seeking to 
penetrate to the heart of the spiritual universe, a la 
Renan. But a God who sees everything that takes 
place, who interests Himself in our affairs, to whom 
we may pray for what we desire — I should indeed, 
like to believe in such a God, but if He existed, would 
He suffer things to be as they are? 



402 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. I1884. 

Tuesday, March II. — It is raining. But it is not 
that alone that depresses me ; I am sick — Heaven has 
overwhelmed me with misfortunes. 

But I am still at an age when one may find a certain 
intoxication, even in the thought of death. 

I fancy there is no one who takes so intense a 
delight in all things as I do — art, music, painting, 
books, society, dress, luxury, gayety, solitude; tears 
and laughter, sadness and rejoicing; love, cold, heat; 
the solemn plains of Russia and the mountains that 
surround Naples; the snows of winter, the rains of 
autumn, spring with its intoxicating joys, the calm 
days and the glorious starlit nights of summer — I love 
them and delight in them all. Everything in nature 
presents itself to me under an aspect either interesting 
or sublime; I long to see everything, to grasp every- 
thing, to embrace everything, to enter into the heart 
of everything, and to die — since die I must, whether 
in one year or in thirty years, I care not which — to 
die, exhaling my being in an ecstasy of joy at solving 
this last mystery of all, the end of all things, or the 
beginning of things divine. 

And this sentiment of universal love is not the 
result of the fever that accompanies my malady. I 
have always felt it as strongly as* I feel it now. Just 
ten years ago — in 1874, as I remember, after 
enumerating the pleasures of the different seasons — 
I wrote thus: 

"In vain would I seek to choose ; all seasons of the 
year, all periods of life, are equally beautiful. 5, 

The good Robert-Fleury dines with us this evening ; 
he says that my picture of the little gamins is greatly 
improved — that it is good, in fact, and that it will be 
accepted at the Salon. 

I forgot to say that it is called "A Meeting." 

Wednesday, March 12. — The portrait of Dina will 



1884.I JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 403 

not be finished in time, so that I shall send only the 
"Meeting." 

There was a friendly gathering at Mme. Hochon's 
this evening. Among those present, besides ourselves, 
were the Duchess d'Uzes; the Countess Cornet, and 
the Marechale; and a number of artists — Cabanel, 
Jalabert, Siebert, G. Ferrier, Boulanger, etc. There 
was music, and Salvayre played and sang some airs 
from his "Henri III." All these people, not excepting 
Cabanel, were very friendly to me. 

Saturday, March 15. — Abbema came to see my pic- 
ture this morning. 

I thought the 15th would never come. The weather 
is glorious, and on Monday or Tuesday I am going 
into the country to work. I will no longer waste 
my admiration on Bastien-Lepage. Indeed I know 
but little of him, his disposition is so — reserved; be- 
sides, it is better to spend one's energy on one's work 
than in worshiping at any one's shrine. 

Sunday, March 16. — The pictures have been sent 
away. 

I came home at about half-past six so exhausted 
with fatigue that the sensation was delicious. Perhaps 
you may not believe it, but for me every overpowering 
sensation, even the sensation of pain, is a joy. 

I remember once when I had hurt my finger, some 
years ago, that for half an hour the pain was so 
acute that I took pleasure in it. 

And so it was with the lassitude I felt this evening, 
lying in my bath, and afterward in bed, my limbs 
powerless, my head full of vague and confused ideas, 
I fell asleep repeating words as disconnected as the 
thoughts that passed through my head — Cabanel, 
varnishing-day, the Marechale, Breslau, art, Algeria, 
the line, Wolff. 



404 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

Wednesday, March 19. — I have discovered an 
orchard for the scene of my picture, at Sevres ; I re- 
turned home very much fatigued. Some friends dined 
with us in the evening. 

Yesterday the election of members to the club of 
Russian artists took place. I was unanimously 
elected. 

Claire saw an acquaintance to-day who told her 
he had visited Bastien-Lepage not long ago, and that 
he had found him very ill ; he met Bastien's physician 
on the following day, who said to him: "The man is 
very ill, but I do not think his disease is rheumatism; 
the trouble is here," and he tapped himself on the 
stomach. So, then, he is really ill! He went to 
Blidah three or four days ago, accompanied by his 
mother. 

Saturday, March 22. — I have not yet begun work 
at Sevres, but all my preparations are made. 

Julian writes : "Your picture has been accepted and 
will receive a No. 3 at the very least." 

What does this at the very least mean ? 

God be thanked! I had not the slightest doubt as 
to my pictures being accepted! 

Monday, March 24. — For the past few days we 
have lived in an atmosphere of discord; and this has 
kept me apart from the others and given me an 
opportunity to look into the depths of my inner self. 
No, everything is too sad to make it worth while to 
complain of any one thing in particular. I am over- 
whelmed by it all. 

I have just re-read a book which I read some years 
ago but did not then like. I now admire it greatly. 
The style of the book, its execution, so to say, is 
perfect. But the question is not one of style alone. — 
The clouds that darken my mental horizon make me 



1884.J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 405 

see the realities of life all the more clearly — realities 
so hard, so bitter that I could not keep from tears 
if I were to write them down. But I cannot even 
write them down. What would be the use of doing 
so? What is the use of anything? I have spent six 
years working ten hours a day to gain what? The 
knowledge of all I have yet to learn in my art — and 
a fatal disease. I went to see my doctor this morning, 
and I talked with so much animation that he said to 
me: "I see you have not yet lost your gayety," 

If I still wish to cherish the hope that fame is to 
recompense me for all my sufferings, I must live, and 
in order to live I must take care of my health. 

Here are dreams side by side with the frightful 
reality. 

One never believes in any coming trouble until it 
comes. I remember once when I was very young I 
was traveling for the first time in a railway coach 
— for the first time I came in contact with strangers. 
I had just taken my seat and filled the two seats next 
to mine with all sorts of articles, when two passengers 
entered the coach. "These seats are taken," I said 
coolly. "Very well," answered the gentleman I ad- 
dressed, "I will speak to the conductor." 

I thought this was an unmeaning threat — as if we 
had been en famille; and it would be impossible to 
describe the feeling of amazement that came over me 
when the conductor came and removed my things from 
the seat, which the passenger took immediately. This 
was my first reality. 

For a long time now I have been saying to myself 
that I was going to be ill, without really believing it. — 
But enough of this, I should not have had the oppor- 
tunity to give you all these insignficant details, if it 
were not that I have been waiting for my model, and 
I might as well spend the time grumbling as doing 
nothing. 



406 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884 

There is a March wind blowing, and the sky is 
gray and lowering. 

I began my picture — a rather large one — in the old 
orchard at Sevres yesterday. It is a young girl seated 
under an apple-tree in blossom, that stands, with other 
fruit-trees in blossom also, in a grassy field sown with 
violets and little yellow flowers, like stars. The girl 
sits with half-closed eyes, in a revery. She leans her 
head in the palm of her left hand, while her elbow 
rests upon her knee. 

The treatment is to be simple, and the spectator 
must be made to share in the intoxication produced 
in the girl by the breath of Spring. The sunlight plays 
among the branches of the trees. 

The picture is to be about five feet in breadth, and 
a little more in height. 

So, then, my picture has only received a number 
3; and it will not be even hung upon the line — not 
even that! 

This has caused me a feeling of discouragement, 
hopeless and profound. No one is to blame, however, 
if I am not gifted with genius. And this feeling of 
discouragement shows me that if I ceased to have 
faith in my genius I could no longer live. Yes, if 
the hope of success, should again fail me, as it did 
this evening, then, indeed, there would be nothing left 
me but to die. 

Thursday, March 2j. — My mind has been greatly 
preoccupied about my work. Why have I not yet 
succeeded in producing anything in painting equal to 
my pastel of three years ago? 

Monday, March 31. — I have done very little to-day. 
I fear that my picture will be badly hung and that 
I shall receive no medal. 



i88 4 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 407 

I remained in a hot bath for nearly an hour, and 
this brought on a slight hemorrhage of the lungs. 

This was very foolish on my part, you will say, very 
likely; but I am no longer prudent about my health; 
I am discouraged, and almost distracted, from having 
so many thing to struggle against. 

Well, there is nothing to be said — nothing to be 
done. If this state of things continues, I may live 
for a year or so, while if my mind were at rest I 
might live for twenty years longer. 

Yes, this 3 is hard to swallow. Zilhardt and Breslau 
have both received a number 3. And why then did 
I not receive a number 2? There are forty members 
in the committee, and it seems that I received so many 
votes for a number 2 that every one thought I should 
get it. Suppose I had fifteen votes in my favor, and 
twenty-five against me ; the committee is composed of 
fifteen or twenty men of note, and twenty wretchedly 
poor artists who have obtained the positions they 
occupy through intrigue. This is well known; but 
even so it is bad enough ; the blow is a crushing one. 
It has not blinded me to the truth of the matter, 
however, and I can see myself as I am. I begin to 
think that if my picture had been really good 

Ah, never, never, never, have I touched the lowest 
depths of despair as I have done to-day. So long 
as there is a lower depth to be reached there is still 
room for hope, but when one has set foot, as I have 
done, on the black and slimy bottom of the gulf itself ; 
when one says to one's-self as I have done, "It is 
neither circumstances nor surroundings, nor the world, 
that is to blame, it is my own want of genius," then 
there is nothing further to be hoped for; then there 
is no higher power, human or divine, to appeal to. I 
can no longer go on working. All is over. 

Here, then, is an overpowering sensation. Well, 



408 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

according to my theories I ought to find enjoyment in 
it. I am caught in my own trap! 

Never mind. I will take some bromide; that will 
make me sleep. And then, God is good, and every 
great sorrow brings along with it some consolation. 

And to think that I cannot even tell my griefs to 
any one; that I cannot even have the consolation of 
talking them over with any one — no, there is no one, 
no one! 

Happy are the simple-hearted ; happy are they who 
believe in a God on whom they can call for consolation. 
— What should I call on God to console me for? 
Because I am not gifted with genius. 

You see this is the very bottom of the gulf ; I ought 
to find enjoyment in it. 

That might be the case if there were spectators to 
my misery. 

Those who become famous have their friends to 
tell their sorrows to the world — for they have had 
friends to whom they could confide their sorrows. I 
have none. Even if I should utter my complaints to 
any one, if I should say, "No, I will never paint 
again !" what then? No one is the loser by it if I 
do not happen to be gifted with genius. 

But of all the sorrows that I hide within my heart 
because there is none to whom I can turn for sym- 
pathy, the deepest, the most humiliating is this : to feel, 
to know, that I am nothing! 

If this were to continue I could not live. 

Wednesday, April 2. — I went to-day to Petit's (an 
exhibition of paintings in the Rue de Seze) ; I stayed 
for an hour admiring the incomparable paintings of 
Bastien-Lepage and of Cazin. 

Then I went to Robert-Fleury's and asked him with 
an unconcerned air, "Well, how did things go at the 
committee ?" 



1884.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 409 

"Oh, very well," he answered; "when your picture 
was inspected some of the members said — not one or 
two of them, but several — 'Stay, that is good; it 
deserves a number 2.' " 

"Oh, monsieur, is it possible ?" 

"Yes, and do not think I say this merely to please 
you; it was so. Then the votes were taken, and if 
the president had been in his right mind that day, you 
would have had a number 2." 

"But what fault do they find with the picture?" 

"None/' 

"How, none ; is it not bad, then ?" 

"It is good." 

"And then?" 

"Then it is a piece of ill-luck, that is all. Now, if 
you could find a member of the committee to ask to 
have it hung on the line, he would have it done, for 
the picture is good." 

"And you — could you not have it done?" 

"I am only a member of the bureau whose duty it 
is to see that the order of the numbers is not interfered 
with. But if any other member should ask to have it 
done, be sure I shall not oppose it." 

Then I went to see Julian, who laughed a little at 
Robert-Fleury's advice, and said I might make my 
mind quite easy ; that it would surprise him very much 
if I were not on the line, and that — And then Robert- 
Fleury told me that he conscientiously thought I de- 
served a number 2, and that, morally speaking, I have 
received it. Morally speaking! — And then it would 
be only justice! 

Oh, no; To ask as a favor that which is my due, 
that would be too much ! 

Friday, April 4. — The exhibition of Bastien-Lepage 
is no doubt a brilliant one, but the pictures are almost 
all old ones. They are: 1. A portrait of Mme. Drouet, 



410 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

of last year. 2. Another portrait of 1882. 3. A land- 
scape with two women washing in the foreground, 
and an apple-tree in blossom, of 1882 also ; 4. His pic- 
ture for the concours, which was awarded the Prix 
de Rome (he received only the second Prix de Rome) 
of 1875; and then there is a little sketch made last 
year at Concarneau — five in all. "Le Mar de Dam- 
villers," 6; "Les Bles ou les Faucheurs," in which 
only the back of one little mower is to be seen, 7; 
an aged mendicant gathering wood in a forest, makes 
eight. "Le Mar de Damvillers," the mowers, and the 
mendicant are in the full sunlight. His landscapes 
are of equal merit with his figures, for a truly great 
artist has no specialty. 

I saw an Andromeda in the studio of Basti en-Lepage 
which, although small, is a study of the nude such 
as few artists could make. Precision of outline, 
character, nobility of form, grace of attitude, fineness 
of tone, — it possesses all these, and in addition an 
execution at once broad in spirit and exquisite in 
detail. In short, it is nature itself, the living flesh. 
Among twilight scenes the "Soir au Village" is a 
masterpiece. In his poetic style, a la Millet, he has 
perhaps gone to the extreme. I say a la Millet so as 
to make my meaning understood, for Bastien is always 
himself; and because Millet has painted sunsets and 
moonlight scenes is no reason why others should not 
do the same if they choose. 

The effect of this "Soir au Village" is wonderful; 
why did I not buy it? 

He has also painted some English landscapes — views 
of the Thames, in which one can almost see the water 
flowing— that heavy, turbid water that moves onward 
in its bed with a snake-like motion. To conclude, 
nothing could be finer than his portraits in miniature; 
they are as fine as the portraits of the old masters. 
As for the portrait of his mother (life-size) the execu- 



i88 4 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 411 

tion of it is wonderful; it is nature's self, and the 
illusion is preserved, however closely the picture be 
examined. The "J eann e d'Arc" is an inspiration of 
genius. 

Bastien-Lepage is thirty-five years old. Raphael 
died at thirty-seven, leaving behind him a greater 
number of works than Bastien has yet produced. But 
Raphael had been cradled, so to speak, in the lap of 
duchesses and of cardinals, who procured for him 
the instructions of the great Perugino ; Raphael at the 
age of fifteen made copies of his master's paintings 
that could scarcely be distinguished from the originals 
— at fifteen he was already a great artist. And then, 
in those great paintings that we admire as much for 
the time in which they were executed as for their 
merit, the chief part of the work was done by the 
pupils; in many of them, indeed, with the exception 
of the Cartoons, there is nothing of Raphael's work. 

Whereas Bastien-Lepage in his early years sorted 
letters in the post-office in Paris to gain a livelihood. 
He exhibited, I believe, for the first time in 1869. 

In this respect, however, he was no worse off than 
I, who have always lived amid surroundings little 
favorable to art. True, I took a few drawing lessons 
in my childhood, as all children do, and fourteen or 
fifteen lessons afterward, for three or four years, still 
continuing to live in the midst of these same sur- 
roundings. That would give me six years and a few 
months of study, but then there were travels and a 
serious illness to interfere. But, after all — what have 
I accomplished? 

Have I accomplished as much as Bastien had ac- 
complished in 1874? This question is a piece of 
insanity. 

If I were to repeat in public, even in the presence 
of those who are artists themselves, what I have 
written here of Bastien, people would declare me to 



412 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

be insane — some from conviction, others on principle 
so that they might not be compelled to admit the 
superior merit of so young an artist. 

Saturday, April 5. — Here are my plans : 

First, I will finish the painting at Sevres. Then 
I will take up seriously the study of sculpture in the 
mornings, and of the nude in the afternoons — the 
sketch for to-day is already done. That will take me 
into July. In July I will begin a painting of "Even- 
ing," representing a meadow, with a far-stretching 
treeless road fading into the sunset sky in the distance. 
On the road is to be a wagon, drawn by two oxen 
and filled with hay, on the top of which an old man 
is lying face downward, his chin resting in the palms 
of his hands. The outlines stand in bold relief against 
the sunset sky. The oxen are led by a country boy. 

That would have a simple, grand, and poetic effect. 

As soon as I shall have finished this and two or 
three little things I have in hand, I will set out for 
Jerusalem, where I shall spend the winter both for 
my health and on account of my picture. 

And next winter Bastien will call me a great artist. 

I write all this here because it is interesting to see 
afterward how our plans turn out. 

Sunday, April 6. — My aunt left for Russia this 
evening. 

Saturday, April 12. — Julian has writtten to tell me 
that my picture is hung on the line. 

Wednesday, April 16. — I go to Sevres every day. 
My picture has taken complete possession of me. The 
apple-tree is in blossom, the trees around are full of 
budding leaves, on which the sunlight plays, and little 
yellow flowers dot the grass ; at the foot of the apple- 



1884.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 413 

tree the young girl is seated, "languid and intoxicated," 
as Andre Theuriet says, "by the balmy breath of 
Spring." If I can only render the effect of the sun- 
light and of the budding life of spring, the picture will 
be beautiful. 



Tuesday, April 29. — To-morrow is varnishing-day. 
In the morning I shall see Figaro and the Gaulois; 
what will they say of me? Will it be good, will it 
be bad, or will they say nothing at all? 

Wednesday, April 30. — Things are not so bad, 
after all, for the Gaulois speaks very well of me; it 
gives me a separate notice. The article is very chic. 
It is by Fourcaud, the Wolff of the Gaulois. 

The Voltaire treats me in the same fashion as the 
Gaulois. Both notices are important ones. 

The Journal des Arts also mentions me, and L'ln- 
transigeant speaks of me in terms of praise. The 
other journals will notice the Exhibition from day 
to day. It is only Figaro, the Gaulois, and the Vol- 
taire that gives a general mention of the pictures on 
varnishing-day. 

Am I satisfied ? It is easy to answer that question ; 
I am neither satisfied nor dissatisfied. My success is 
just enough to keep me from being unhappy; that 
is all. 

I have just returned from the Salon. We did not 
go until noon and we left at five — an hour before the 
exhibition closes. — I have a headache. 

We remained for a long time seated on a bench 
before the picture. It attracted a good deal of atten- 
tion, and I smiled to myself at the thought that no 
one would ever imagine the elegantly dressed young 
girl seated before it, showing the tips of her little 
boots, to be the artist. 



414 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

Ah, all this is a great deal better than last year! 

Have I achieved a success, in the true, serious 
meaning of the word ? I almost think so. 

Breslau has two portraits, only one of which I have 
seen, and that surprised me greatly. It is an imita- 
tion of Manet — which I do not like, — and is not so 
good as her previous work. Perhaps you will be 
shocked by the confession I am going to make, but 
— this does not grieve me; neither am I rejoiced at 
it, however; there is room for every one, but I con- 
fess I am better pleased that the picture is not a 
good one. 

Bastien-Lepage sends nothing but his little picture 
of last year — "La Forge." He is not yet well enough 
to go on working. The poor architect looks very de- 
jected and says he is going to throw himself into the 
river. 

I, too, am sad, and notwithstanding my painting, 
my sculpture, my music, my reading, I believe I am 
tired of life. 

Saturday, May 3. — Emile Bastien came to-day at 
about half -past eleven. I went down to see him, very 
much surprised at his visit. 

He had a great many pleasant things to tell me; 
he says I have achieved a genuine success. 

"I do not mean compared with your previous work, 
or with that of your fellow-pupils at the studio," he 
said, "but as compared with that of any artist. I 
saw Ollendorff yesterday, who said that if it were 
the work of a Frenchman, the State would have 
purchased it. Yes, truly, M. Bashkirtseff paints 
well," he added. (The painting is signed M. Bash- 
kirtseff.) "I told him that you were a young girl — 
and a pretty one, I added. He could not believe it. 
Every one has spoken to me of it as a great success." 

Ah, I begin to believe in it a little, myself. I am 



i88 4 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 415 

always slow to believe in any piece of good fortune, 
lest I should be disappointed afterward. 

In short, I shall be the last to believe that people 
believe in my genius. But it really seems as if they 
would, in the end. 

"A genuine and great artistic success," Emile 
Bastien says. 

Is it then a success equal to that of Jules Bastien, 
in 1874 or 1875? Ah, if it only were! I am not 
yet overjoyed, however, for I can scarcely believe 
that. I want to be overjoyed. 

This very good friend of mine has asked me to 
sign a paper giving permission to Charles Baude, the 
engraver, and an intimate friend of his brother, to 
photograph and engrave my painting for the Monde 
Illustre. That will be of very great advantage to me. 

He told me also that Friant (who is a man of 
talent) is enthusiastic about my picture. 

People whom I have never seen talk about me, are 
interested in me, discuss my merits. What happi- 
ness ! Ah, I have waited for this and hoped for this 
so long that, now that it has come, I can scarcely 
believe it. 

I received a letter from a stranger yesterday ask- 
ing my permission to photograph my picture. I 
prefer that Baude should do it, however (the one 
Bastien-Lepage calls Chariot, and to whom he writes 
letters eight pages long). 

I am going down to mamma's drawing-room now, 
to receive the congratulations of all the imbeciles, who 
regard my pictures as the works of a woman of so- 
ciety, and who pay any little fool the same com- 
pliments as they pay me. 

Rosalie, I think, is the one who takes the liveliest 
satisfaction in my success. She is wild with joy; 
when she speaks to me about it she shows the delight 
an old nurse might show at the success of her 



416 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

nursling; and she talks of it to everybody, with the 
garrulity of a portress. For her this is an event, a 
piece of good- fortune that has befallen her. 

Monday, May 5. — Death is a thing we write and 
talk about lightly enough, but to think one is going 
to die soon, to believe it — that is another matter. Do 
I then believe that I am going to die soon? No, but 
I fear it. 

The fact is not to be disguised; I have consump- 
tion. The right lung is far gone, and the left lung 
has been affected for a year past. Both lungs, then. 
If I were differently built, I should look almost thin. 
Not that I am much thinner than many other young 
girls are, but I am much more so than I was. A year 
ago my figure was perfect — neither too stout nor too 
thin. At present the flesh on my arms is no longer 
firm, and on the upper part of the arm, near the 
shoulder, where a smooth round surface was to be 
seen before, the bone is plainly visible. In short, 
my health is gone past recovery. "But, wretched 
creature," you will say, "why then will you not take 
more care of yourself?" But I take excessive care 
of myself. I have had my chest burned on both sides, 
so that I shall be unable to wear a low-necked dress 
for four months to come. And it will be necessary 
to continue the burnings from time to time so that 
I may be able to sleep. The question is no longer 
one of getting well. It may be thought that I exag- 
gerate matters! but no, I say only what is the truth. 
And besides the burnings there are so many other 
things to be done. I do them all; I take cod-liver 
oil, arsenic, and goat's milk — they have bought me 
a goat. 

I may linger on for a while, but I am doomed. 

The trouble is that I have had too many things to 
contend against, and they are killing me; this was 



1884.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. 417 

only to be expected, but it is none the less horrible. 

There are so many things to make life interesting; 
reading alone would be enough. 

I have just obtained the complete works of Zola 
and Renan, and some of Taine's works. I prefer 
Taine's "Revolution" to that of Michelet. Michelet 
is rambling, and wanting in precision of thought, and 
notwithstanding his sympathy with the heroic aspects 
of the Revolution, and Taine's evident purpose to 
depict it on its worst side, I like Taine's work best. 

And what is to be said of art? Ah, if one could 
only believe in a beneficent God who interests himself 
in our affairs and arranges them to our satisfaction! 

Tuesday, May 6. — I have been devoting all my time 
to reading; I have read all Zola's works. He is an 
intellectual giant. 

Here is another man of genius whom the French 
people evidently do not appreciate! 

Wednesday, May 7. — I have just received a letter 
from Dusseldorff, containing a request for permission 
to engrave and publish my picture, as well as some 
other things of mine. This is amusing. As for me 
I cannot believe in it yet. In short, I must acknowl- 
edge that I have achieved a success — every one tells 
me so. They did not tell me so last year, however. 
Last year I obtained some reputation as an artist, 
owing to the pastel; but it was nothing compared to 
the reputation this year's picture has given me. Of 
course it is not an astounding success ; and my name, 
announced in any drawing-room to-night, would not 
create the slightest sensation. And to convince me 
of my success and make me perfectly happy, that 
would be necessary. 

Yes, when my name is mentioned every voice must 



418 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

be hushed, every head turned in my direction, in order 
to satisfy me. 

Since the opening of the Salon there is not a single 
journal that has not spoken of my picture; but that 
is not all; there was an article by Etincelle in the 
Paris of this morning. It is very chic. I come im- 
mediately after Claire and have as many lines de- 
voted to me as she has! I am a Greuze! I am a 
blonde, with liquid eyes and the imperious brow of 
one destined to become famous; I dress with ele- 
gance; I have marked ability, and my pictures are 
good specimens of the realistic school, after the 
manner of Bastien-Lepage. But this is not all; I 
have the smile and the winning grace of a child. And 
I am not transported with delight? Well, no, not 
at all. 

Thursday, May 8. — How is it that Wolff has made 
no mention of my picture! It is possible, indeed, 
that he may not yet have seen it; his attention may 
have been diverted by something while he was making 
the tour of the room in which it is hung. It cannot 
be because I am unworthy of engaging the attention 
of so famous a man, for he has noticed persons — 
of even less importance than I. 

What is it then? Is it a piece of ill-luck, like 
the number 3? I do not believe in making ill-luck 
an excuse for our want of success — that would be 
too easy a way of soothing one's wounded self-love; 
and besides, it makes one look foolish. I attribute 
it rather to my want of merit. 

And the most astounding thing is that this is the 
truth. 

Friday, May 9. — I am reading Zola, and I admire 
him greatly. His criticisms and studies are ad- 
mirable, and I am delighted with them. To gain the 



1884.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 419 

love of such a man, what would not a woman do? 
Do you suppose me, then, capable of love, as another 
woman might be? Oh, Heaven! 

Well, the affection I felt for Bastien-Lepage was 
the same as that which I now feel for Zola, whom 
I have never seen, who is forty-five years old, and 
corpulent, and who has a wife. I ask you if the 
men one meets in society — the men one is expected 
to marry — are not altogether absurd? What could 
I find to say to any one of those the whole day long? 

Emile Bastien dined with us to-day, and told me 
he would bring M. Hayem, a well-known art-con- 
noisseur, to see me next Thursday morning. 

He possesses pictures of Delacroix, Corot, and 
Bastien-Lepage, and he has a special gift for discover- 
ing latent genius. 

The day following the one in which the portrait 
of Bastien-Lepage's grandfather was exhibited, 
Hayem went to see the artist in his studio and gave 
him an order for a portrait of his father. It seems 
he has an astonishingly keen scent for genius; Emile 
Bastien saw him standing before my picture to-day, 
looking at it. 

"What do you think of that?" he asked him. 

"I think it very good," returned the connoisseur; 
"do you know the artist? Is she young?" and so on. 

This Hayem has been following me since last 
year, when he looked at my pastel, as he did at my 
painting this year. 

In short, they are coming here on Thursday; he 
wishes to buy one of my pictures. 

Monday, May 12. — After a period of intensely cold 
weather, the temperature for the last three days has 
risen to 28 or 29 degrees. This is overpowering. 

While waiting for M. Hayem's visit, I have been 
finishing a study of a little girl, in the garden. 



420 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

I forgot to mention that we met Hechet on the 
staircase of the Italiens. He spoke enthusiastically of 
my picture. 

I have not yet achieved the success I desire, how- 
ever. But neither had Bastien-Lepage achieved the 
success he desired, before he exhibited the portrait 
of his grandfather. True, but nevertheless — as I am 
fated to die soon, I want success to come quickly. 

All the symptoms seem to indicate that Bastien- 
Lepage has a cancer in the stomach. It is all over 
with him, then. But perhaps they are mistaken. The 
poor fellow cannot sleep. It is atrocious. And his 
porter probably enjoys excellent health. It is atro- 
cious. 

Thursday, May 15. — E. Bastien came with M. 
Hayem this morning to see my pictures. Is it not 
absurd? I can scarcely believe it to be true: I am 
an artist. I have genius — and speaking seriously, not 
in jest. And a man of M. Hayem's reputation comes 
to see my paintings, and cares to look at what I have 
done. Can it be possible? 

Emile Bastien is delighted at all this. The other 
day he said to me: "It seems to me as if it were 
I myself who was concerned." The poor fellow is 
very unhappy; I fear his brother will not get over 
this. 

May 15. — I spent the whole afternoon walking up 
and down my room, very happy, with little shivers 
running up and down my back at the thought of the 
medal. 

The medal is for the public; as a matter of fact, 
I prefer such a success as mine, without a medal, to 
some kinds of medals. 

Saturday, May 17. — I have just returned from the 
Bois, where I went with the demoiselles Staritsky, 



1884.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 421 

who are in Paris for a few days; I met Bagnisky 
there, who told me they were discussing the Exhibi- 
tion at Bogoluboff's the other day, and that some one 
remarked that my pictures resembled the paintings of 
Bastien-Lepage. 

On the whole, I am flattered by the stir my picture 
has made. I am envied: I am slandered; I am some 
one; so that I may be allowed to put on airs if I 
choose. 

Instead of doing this, however, I cry out in a 
heart-breaking tone, "Is it not horrible and enough 
to discourage any one? I spent six years — the six 
best years of my life — working like a galley-slave, 
seeing no one, enjoying nothing; at the end of that 
time I succeed in painting a good picture, and they 
dare to say I have received assistance in doing it! 
The reward of all my efforts is to be vilely 
slandered !" 

This I say half-jestingly, half-seriously, reclining 
on a bearskin with my arms hanging listlessly by my 
sides. Mamma takes it all seriously, however, and 
this drives me wild. 

They give the medal of honor to X , let us 

suppose; naturally I cry out that it is an injustice, 
that it is a shame ; that I am furious, etc. 

Mamma: "But, for Heaven's sake, do not get so 
excited ; they have not given it to him ; it is not true, 
they have not given it to him. And if they have done 
so, they have done it on purpose; they know your 
disposition ; they know you will fly into a rage about 
it. They have done it purposely, and you allow your- 
self to be caught in the trap, like a little fool !" 

This is not an accusation, remember; it is only 
a supposition; but wait until X receives his medal, 
and you shall see! 

Another example: The novel of the pitiful creature 
Y, who happens to be in fashion just now, has 



422 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

reached — I dont' know how many editions. Naturally, 
I am enraged. "You see," I cry, "this is what the 
public like; this is what their minds feed upon! O 
temporal O mores!" Would you believe that 
mamma begins the same tirade over again, or almost 
the same as in the case of X. This has already 
happened more than once. She is afraid I shall break 
in pieces at the slightest shock; that it will kill me; 
and she seeks to save me from this fate by such 
means as cause me an attack of fever in the end. 

Again: X, Y, or Z chances to say in the course 
of a visit, "Do you know that the ball at Laroche- 
foucauld's was a very brilliant affair ?" 

I frown at this. Mamma observes it, and five 
minutes later says something, as if by chance, that 
it calculated to disparage the ball in my eyes — if she 
does not try to prove that it has not taken place 
at all. 

It has come to this — inventions and childish subter- 
fuges ; it makes me foam with rage to think that they 
should believe me so easily imposed upon. 

Tuesday, May 20. — I went to the Salon at ten 

o'clock this morning with M. H . He says my 

picture is so good that people think I have received 
assistance in painting it. 

This is outrageous. 

He had the daring to say that Bastien has never 
composed a picture, that he is a portrait-painter; that 
his pictures are only portraits, and that he has never 
done anything in the nude. The audacity of this 
Jew amazes me. 

He spoke of the medal and said he would interest 
himself about it; he knows all the members of the 
committee. 

We went from the Salon to Robert-Fleury's. I 



i88 4 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 423 

told him very excitedly that I was accused of not 
having painted my own picture. 

He said he had heard nothing about it; that such 
a thing was not mentioned by any member of the 
committee; that if it had been mentioned, he was 
there to contradict it. He thought me much more 
agitated than I really was, and came home with me 
to breakfast, so as to soothe and console me. "How 
can you let everything agitate you in this way?" he 
said. "Such things should be treated with the con- 
tempt they deserve." 

"I only wish one of the committee would say such 
a thing in my presence," he added, "I should be 
furious, I would annihilate him on the spot." 

"Ah, thank you, monsieur," I said. 

"No," he returned, "you must not thank me; the 
question is not one of friendship, it is one of justice; 
and I know what you can do better than any one 
else." 

He repeated all these pleasant things to me again 
and again, and also said that my chances of re- 
ceiving the medal were good ; one can never tell with 
certainty, of course, but it appears that I have a good 
chance. 

Saturday, May 24. — The medals of the first and 
second classes are to be awarded to-day; to-morrow 
those of the third class. 

To-day is warm and I feel tired. The France 
Illustre has asked my permission to reproduce the 
painting. Some one called Lecadre has written to 
me asking permission also. I have granted it in both 
cases ; let them reproduce it as much as they will. 

And then medals are awarded to paintings that are 
not so good as mine. Oh, I am not at all uneasy; 
true genius will make itself recognized under all cir- 
cumstances; only it is tiresome to be waiting for 



424 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

anything. It is better not to count upon it. The 
mention was promised as a certainty; the medal is 
doubtful, but it will be unjust if I do not receive it. 
Evidently. 

Sunday, May 25. — What have I accomplished 
since the first of May? Nothing. And why? Ah, 
woe is me! 

I have just come from Sevres; it is frightful; the 
landscape is so changed that it will never do; it 
is Spring no longer. And then my apple-blossoms 
(in the painting) have turned yellow; I had mixed 
in too much oil. I was an idiot, but I have altered 
it; well, we shall see. But this picture must be fin- 
ished. What with the Salon, the newspapers, the 

rain, H and other stupid things of the kind, I 

have lost twenty-five days; this is maddening; but 
there is an end to it all now. 

The medal is to be awarded to-day, and it is now 
four o'clock. The rain is falling in torrents. Last 
year I was sure of receiving it, and all that troubled 
me was having to wait for the news. This year I 
am by no means sure of receiving it, and I am much 
more tranquil than I was then. 

This year it is yes or no, without any doubt about 
the matter. If it is yes, I shall know it by eight 
o'clock this evening. Meantime I shall go recline in 
the easy-chair by the window, and amuse myself look- 
ing out at the passers-by while I am waiting for the 
news. 

It is now twenty minutes past five, and I am not 
much more tired than if I had remained idle all this 
time without waiting for anything. 

It vexes me to think of that oil that has turned 
my apple-blossoms yellow. When I looked at them 
for the first time the perspiration broke out on my 
face. Let us hope it will not be very noticeable, how- 



i88 4 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 425 

ever. — In two hours more I shall know. Perhaps you 
think I am very nervous about the matter. No, I 
assure you; I am not much more nervous than I 
have often been after spending an afternoon listless 
and alone, doing nothing. 

In any case I shall learn the result from to-mor- 
row's papers. 

I am tired to death waiting; I am feverish, and 
I have a slight headache. 

Ah, I shall not receive it, and it is the thought of 
what mamma will say that most annoys me ! I do 
not wish my affairs to be pried upon by others, my 
feelings to be commented upon by them. It makes 
me turn hot, as if I had committed some immodest 
action. No matter what my feelings are, I wish 
to be allowed to indulge them in peace. Mamma 
will imagine that I am grieving, and that exasperates 
me. 

The air is close and foggy; I can scarcely breathe. 

It is thirty-five minutes past seven; I am called 
to dinner. All is over. 

Monday, May 26. — This is better; instead of 
stupidly waiting, I am now indignant, but indignation 
is a feeling one need not conceal and is rather refresh- 
ing than otherwise. Twenty-six medals were awarded 
yesterday; there are still six more to be awarded. 

M has received a medal for his portrait of 

Julian. 

What can be the reason that I have received no 
medal? For certainly pictures no better than mine 
have received medals. 

Injustice? That is an excuse I am not very fond 
of. It is one that any fool can claim. 

They may admire my picture or not, as they choose, 
but it is an undeniable fact that it contains seven 
figures, life-size, grouped together, on a background 



426 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

that has some merit also. Every one whose opinion 
is worth having thinks it very good, or at least good ; 
some persons have even said that I received assist- 
ance in painting it. Even the elder Robert-Fleury, 
without knowing whose the picture was, thought it 
very good; and Boulanger has said to people who 
do not know me that he does not like that style, it 
is true, but that the picture is well executed and very 
interesting. 

What can be the reason I have received no medal 
then? 

Paintings without any merit whatever have been 
awarded medals; I know very well that this is often 
the case. But on the other hand, there is no artist 
of merit who has not received one or more medals. 
What then? what then? I also have eyes to see; my 
picture is a composition. 

Suppose I had painted those urchins in the costume 
of the Middle Ages, and executed the work in a 
studio — which is much easier than to work in the 
open air — against a background of tapestry. 

I should then have a historical picture which would 
be very much admired in Russia. 

What am I to believe? 

Here is another request for permission to reproduce 
my picture ; it is from Barschet, the celebrated editor. 

This is the fifth I have given. And what then? 

Tuesday, May 27. — It is over. I have received 
no medal. 

Oh, it is humiliating! I had had hopes up to this 
morning. And if you but knew the things that have 
received medals. 

Why am I not disheartened by this? I am very 
much surprised at it, however. If my picture is good, 
why has it not received a prize? 

Intrigues, you will say. 



1884J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 427 

But all the same, if my picture is good, why has 
it not received a prize? I have no wish to pose as 
an unsophisticated child who ignores that there are 
such things as intrigues, but it appears to me that if 
the painting really had merit 

Then the trouble is that the painting is bad? No, 
not that either. 

I have eyes to see for myself — and then, others 
have praised it! And the forty newspapers! 

Thursday, May 29. — I have had a fever all night, 
and my nerves are in a state of the most frightful 
irritation ; it is enough to make one mad. This irrita- 
tion of the nerves, however, is due as much to having 
passed a sleepless night as to my not having received 
a medal. 

I am very unhappy. I wish that I could believe 
in God. Is it not natural to look up to some power 
above when one is sick and miserable and unfor- 
tunate? One would fain believe in an Omnipotent 
Being, whose aid one has only to invoke in order to 
receive it; to whom one can address one's-self with- 
out being slighted or humiliated, and to whom one 
has access at all times. When physicians fail to help 
us, we ask that a miracle may be wrought; the 
miracle is not wrought, but while we are waiting for 
it we are less miserable; this is not much consolation. 
If there be a God, He must be a just God; and if 
He is just, how can He allow things to be as they 
are? Alas! if we let thoughts like this enter into 
our minds, we can no longer believe in a God. Why 
live? What purpose is served by dragging on longer 
this miserable existence? To die would have at least 
this advantage : One might then learn what this other 
life is that people talk so much about; that is to say, 
if there be another life — which is what we shall learn 
when we are dead. 



428 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

Friday, May 30. — I have been considering that it 
is very foolish on my part to take no thought of the 
only thing in life worth having — the one thing that 
can compensate for every want, that can make us 
forget every misery — love, in a word. Two beings 
who love each other believe each other to be morally 
and physically perfect, — morally so, especially. One 
who loves you must of necessity be just, loyal, gen- 
erous, and ready to perform a heroic action with 
simplicity. 

Two beings who love each other believe the uni- 
verse to be what the philosophers, such as Aristotle 
and I, for instance, have dreamed it to be, — admirable 
and perfect, and this is, in my opinion, the chief 
attraction love possesses for the soul. 

In our intercourse with our family, with our 
friends, with the world, some glimpse of the weak- 
nesses of humanity is sure to be had ; here of avarice 
or of folly, there of envy, of meanness, or of in- 
justice; the friend we love most dearly has thoughts 
which he conceals from us, so that, as Maupassant 
says, man is always alone, for even in his most con- 
fidential moments there will still remain some thought 
hidden from him in the bossom of his friend. 

Well, love works this miracle of blending two souls 
in one. It is only an illusion, it is true, but what 
matter ? That which we believe to exist, exists. Love 
makes the universe appear to us such as it ought to 
be. If I were God 

Well, what then? 

Saturday, May 31. — Villevielle has just told me 
that the reason I did not receive a medal was because 
I made a fuss about last year's mention, and spoke 
publicly of the committee as idiots. It is true that 
I did so. 

My picture is not indeed a very large one, nor is 



i88 4 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 429 

it very bold in style; if it were, the "Meeting" would 
be a masterpiece. But is it necessary that a painting 
should be a masterpiece to obtain an insignificant 
third-class medal? The engraving of Baude has ap- 
peared, accompanied by an article which says that the 
public are disappointed at my having received no 
medal. My painting is dry, it is said. But they say 
the same thing of Bastien's painting. 

Is there any one in the world who can say that the 

portrait of M has more merit than my picture 

has? 

Bastien-Lepage received eight votes for his "Jeanne 

d'Arc." M received a medal for his portrait. 

And the great M received twenty-eight votes, 

exactly twenty more than I received. There is neither 
conscience nor justice in the world. Truly I know 
not what to think. 

I went downstairs when H came, in order to 

show this Jew that I am not cast down. 

I appeared so haughty and unconcerned while we 
chatted of photographs, engravings, patrons of art, 
etc., that this son of Israel finally made up his mind 
to transact some business with me — even though I 
have received no medal! "I will buy your pastel" 
("Armandine"), he said, "and the Head of the 
Laughing Baby." Two ! He arranged the matter of 
the purchase with Dina, but we referred him, as to 
the price, to Emile Bastien. I am very well satisfied. 

Sunday, June 1. — For a month past I have done 
nothing! Yes, I began the works of Sully- Prud- 
homme yesterday morning and I have been reading 
them ever since. I have two of his books, and I like 
them extremely. 

I trouble my head but little about verse; when it 
is bad it annoys me, but, otherwise, I think only of 
the idea expressed. If people like to make rhymes, 



43© JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

let them do so, provided only that they do it in such 
a way as not to distract my attention from the 
thought. And the thought is what pleases me in 
Sully-Prudhomme. There is an elevation of style, a 
subtlety of reasoning, that is almost abstract in his 
works, which is in harmony with my own way of 
thinking. 

I have just been reading, lying on the divan or 
walking up and down on my balcony, the preface to 
"Lucretius," as well as the work itself — "De Natura 
Rerum." Those who have read the book will be 
able to appreciate this. 

To understand this work great concentration of 
thought is necessary. Even those accustomed to deal 
with such subjects must find it difficult reading. I 
understood all I read, though the meaning would at 
times escape me; but on such occasions I read the 
passage over and over again until I had grasped the 
thought. I ought to admire Sully-Prudhomme greatly 
for writing things which I find it difficult to under- 
stand. 

He is as familiar with the management of thoughts 
as I am with the management of colors. 

Then he ought to admire me greatly too, for with 
a few "muddy paints," as the antipathetic Theophile 
Gautier says, I can create a countenance that will 
express human emotions, landscapes that will reflect 
Nature in all her aspects — the sky, the trees, the 
atmosphere. Probably he thinks himself a thousand 
times superior to a painter, because he is able to 
ransack the secret recesses of the mind. But what 
does he or any one else learn from that? 

How the mind works? To give to the intellectual 
processes, swift and elusive as they are, names — it 
seems to me in my ignorance that this is an unprofit- 
able occupation for the mind. It is an interesting 
and refined amusement, and one that requires the 



1884.1 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 431 

exercise of skill, but what end does it serve? Is it 
by giving names to strange and abstract things that 
the great writers and thinkers of the world have been 
formed ? 

"Man," these metaphysicians say, "can take cog- 
nizance of an object only in so far as he comes into 
relations with it, etc." The greater number of my 
readers will be able to make nothing out of this. I 
will cite another passage: "Our knowledge, there- 
fore, cannot exceed the knowledge expressed in our 
categories, as applied to our perceptions." Good: we 
can understand no more than we can understand. 
That is self-evident. 

If I had received a thorough and systematic edu- 
cation, I should be a remarkable person. Everything 
I know I have taught myself. I myself drew out the 
plan of my studies at Nice, with the professors of 
the Academy, who could not get over their amaze- 
ment at the intelligence displayed in it. In forming 
it I was guided partly by my own ideas in the matter, 
partly by ideas gathered in the course of my reading. 
Since then I have read the Greek and Latin authors, 
the French and English classics, contemporary writers 
— everything I came across, in short. 

But all this knowledge is in a chaotic state, not- 
withstanding the efforts I have made, through my 
natural love of harmony, to reduce it to order. 

What is there in this writer, Sully- Prudhomme, to 
attract me? I bought his works six months ago, and 
tried to read them then, but cast them aside, after a 
time, as agreeable verses, indeed, but nothing more. 
To-day I found thoughts in them that enchanted me 
and read on for hours, under the influence of 
Frangois Coppee's visit. But neither Coppee nor any 
one else has ever spoken to me of him. In what then 
does his attraction for me consist, and how have I 
come to discover it only now? 



432 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

I might, by a great effort of the mind, succeed in 
making a philosophical analysis of this great achieve- 
ment of the human intellect — "De Natura Rerum." 
But what purpose would it serve? Would it make 
me alter a single one of my opinions? 

Thursday, June 5. — Prater is dead; he had grown 
up with me; they bought him for me at Vienna in 
1870; he was three weeks old at the time, and had 
a habit of hiding behind the trunks, among the papers 
in which parcels came wrapped from the shops. 

He was my faithful and devoted dog; he would 
whine when I left the house, and pass whole hours at 
the window, waiting for my return. Afterward, in 
Rome, I had a fancy for another dog, and mamma 
took Prater, who was always jealous of his rival, how- 
ever. Poor Prater, with his tawny hide, like a lion's, 
and his beautiful eyes; I blush for myself when I 
think of my heartlessness ! 

My new dog, who was called Pincio, was stolen 
from me in Paris. Instead of taking back Prater, 
who had never been able to console himself for my 
abandonment of him, I was foolish enough to take 
Coco I. and afterward the original Coco. This was 
base, it was despicable. For four years these two 
animals were always ready to devour each other, 
and finally it was necessary to shut Prater in an upper 
room, where he was kept a prisoner, while Coco 
walked over people and did as he chose. His death 
was due to old age. I spent a couple of hours with 
him yesterday; he dragged himself to my side, and 
rested his head upon my knee. 

Ah, I am a pretty wretch, with my affectionate 
sentiments. What a despicable character is mine! I 
shed tears as I write, and I think the while that these 
tears will procure me, with those who read me, the 
reputation of having a good heart. I always intended 



i88 4 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 433 

to take back the poor brute, but never went beyond 
giving him a lump of sugar, or a caress, as I passed 
him by. 

You should have seen his tail at such times! It 
would turn round and round so fast that it looked 
like a wheel. 

It seems, after all, that the poor creature is not 
yet dead; I had thought he was dead because I no 
longer saw him in his room; he had hidden himself 
behind a trunk or a bathtub, as he used to do at 
Vienna, and I thought they had taken away his dead 
body, and were afraid to tell me of it. But it will 
be either to-night or to-morrow. 

Robert-Fleury found me crying to-day. I had 
written to him in regard to the reproduction of my 
picture, and he came in answer to my letter. It ap- 
pears I had neglected to sign a little paper by means 
of which others were to be prevented from repro- 
ducing the picture, and thus, perhaps, involving me 
in a law-suit. You must know that I am very proud 
of all these requests for permission to reproduce my 
picture, and I should be proud even of a law-suit. 

Friday, June 6. — I have been thinking a great deal 
about the soiree at the Embassy; I only fear that 
something may occur to spoil it for me. I can never 
believe in the possibility of anything pleasant hap- 
pening to me. Everything may seem to be propitious, 
but in the end something is always sure to occur, some 
obstacle to oppose itself to the realization of my 
hopes. This has been the case for a long time past. 

We went to the Salon to-day — I, for the purpose 
of seeing the picture that had received the medal. 
We met Robert-Fleury there, and, as we were stand- 
ing before one of the pictures that had been awarded 
a second-class medal, I asked him what he would say 
if I had shown him a picture like that. 



434 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

"In the first place, I hope you will take good care 
not to paint pictures like that/' he answered seriously. 

"But how about the medal then?" I asked. 

"Oh, well," he answered, "he is a man who has 
been exhibiting for a long time, and then — you can 
understand how it is " 



Saturday, June 7. — We are preparing for this 
night's event in silence. 

I am to wear a gown of white silk mull. The bodice 
is trimmed with two pieces of mull, crossing each 
other in folds, in front, and fastened on the shoulders 
with knots of the material. The sleeves are short and 
trimmed in the same way. There is a wide, white 
sash with long ends falling behind. The skirt is made 
of the mull draped from left to right, and falling to 
the feet. In the back are two lengths of the mate- 
rial, the one touching the ground, the other a little 
shorter. My slippers are white and quite plain. The 
general effect is charming. My hair is dressed a la 
Psyche, and is without ornament. The drapery in 
the front is a dream. It is all so simple and elegant 
that I shall look very pretty. Mamma will wear a 
black damask gown covered with jet, with a long 
train, and diamonds. 

Sunday, June 8. — I looked as well as I have ever 
looked in my life, or as it would be possible for me 
to look. The gown produced a charming effect, and 
my complexion was as fresh and blooming as in the 
old days at Nice or Rome. 

People who only see me as I am every day looked 
at me with amazement. 

We arrived a little late. Madame Fredericks was 
not with the Ambassadress, with whom mamma ex- 
changed a few words. I was very calm and very much 



i88 4 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 435 

at my ease. We met many acquaintances. Madame 

d'A , whom I saw at the Gavinis, but who had 

not bowed to me, bowed to me last night very gra- 
ciously. I took the arm of Gavini, who looked very 
well with his ribbons and stars; he presented Mena- 
brea, the Italian Minister, to me, and we discussed 
art together. Afterwards M. de Lesseps talked to me 
for a long time about his children and their nurses, 
and the shares of the Suez Canal. Then Chevreau 
gave me his arm, and we took a turn through the 
rooms together. 

As for the charges d'affaires and the attaches, I 
neglected them in order to devote myself to the old 
men, with their decorations. Later, having duly 
burned incense at the shrine of fame, I chatted with 
some of the artists who were there; they were very 
curious to know me, and asked to be presented to 
me. But I was so pretty and well-dressed that they 
will be convinced that I did not paint my picture 
without assistance. There were Cheremetieff, Leh- 
man, a very amiable old man, of some talent, and 
Edlefeldt, who has a great deal of talent. 

The latter is a handsome, though vulgar, young 
man — a Russian, from Finland. Altogether I spent 
a very pleasant evening. The chief thing, you see, 
is to be pretty; everything depends upon that. 

Tuesday, June 10. — How interesting it is to watch 
the passers-by in the street; to note the expression 
on their faces, their peculiarities; to obtain glimpses 
into the souls of those who are strangers to us; and 
to endow all this with life, or rather to picture to 
ourselves the life, of each of these strangers! 

One paints a combat of Roman gladiators, which 
one has never seen, from Parisian models. Why not 
paint the gladiators of Paris from the Parisian popu- 
lace, also? In five or six centuries this would be 



436 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

antiquity, and the fools of that time would regard it 
with veneration. 

Saturday, June 14. — We had a great many visitors 
to-day, as it is mamma's birthday. I wore a very 
handsome gown — gray taffeta, with a white mull vest 
in the style of Louis XVI. 

Monday, June 16. — We went to-night to see Sarah 
Bernhardt in "Macbeth" (Richepin's translation). 
The Gavinis were with us. I so seldom go to the 
theater that I enjoyed it. The declamatory style of 
the actors, however, offended my artistic sense. How 
much more agreeable it would be if these people only 
spoke naturally ! 

Marais ("Macbeth") was good at times; his in- 
tonation was theatrical, so artificial, that it was pain- 
ful to listen to him. Sarah, however, is always 
admirable, though her voice is no longer the silvery 
voice it was. 

Tuesday, June 17. — I am tormented by the thought 
of my picture, and the hands are still to be done! It 
interests me no longer — this apple-tree in blossom, 
and these violets; and this peasant girl half-asleep! 
A canvas three feet in length would have been quite 
large enough for it, and I have made it life-size. It 
is good for nothing. Three months thrown away ! 

Wednesday, June 18. — I am still at Sevres ! What 
torments me is that I have an attack of fever every 
day. And then it seems impossible for me to grow 
fat. Yet I drink six or seven glasses of milk a day. 

Friday, June 20. — The architect has written to me 
from Algiers. At the end of my letter to him I had 
drawn our three likenesses, with a medal around the 



i88 4 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 437 

neck of each. To Jules I had given the medal of 
honor, to myself a medal of the first, and to the 
architect a medal of the second class, for next year's 
Salon. I also sent him a photograph of "The Meet- 
ing." And he tells me he showed them both to his 
brother, who was delighted to be able to form some 
idea of the picture he had heard so much about, and 
which he thought very good. 

"How stupid they are," he says his brother ex- 
claimed, "not to have awarded a medal to this paint- 
ing, which seems to me very good indeed !" 

He would like very much to have written to me, 
Emile adds, but it was not possible for him to do 
so. He still suffers greatly; notwithstanding this, 
however, he has resolved to start for home a week 
from to-day. He charged the architect to give me 
his friendly regards, and to thank me for the em- 
broidery. 

A year ago this would have delighted me. He 
would like to have written to me J I can only take 
a retrospective pleasure in this, for at present such 
things are almost indifferent to me. 

At the end of the letter is a drawing of me, with 
a medal of honor for 1886. 

He must have been touched by the delicate manner 
in which I sought to console his brother in my letter. 
The letter began seriously, with comforting words, 
and ended with pleasantries, according to my custom. 

Wednesday, June 25. — I have just been reading my 
journal for the years 1875, 1876, and 1877. I find it 
full of vague aspirations toward some unknown goal. 
My evenings were spent in wild and despairing at- 
tempts to find some outlet for my powers. Should 
I go to Italy? Remain in Paris? Marry? Paint? 
What should I strive to become? If I went to Italy, 
I should no longer be in Paris, and my desire was 



438 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

to be everywhere at once. What a waste of energy 
was there! 

If I had been born a man, I would have conquered 
Europe. As I was born a woman, I exhausted my 
energy in tirades against fate, and in eccentricities. 
There are moments when one believes one's-self cap- 
able of all things. "If I only had the time," I wrote, 
"I would be a sculptor, a writer, a musician!" 

I am consumed by an inward fire, but death is the 
inevitable end of all things, whether I indulge in 
these vain longings or not. 

But if I am nothing, if I am to be nothing, why 
these dreams of fate, since the time I was first able 
to think? Why these wild longings after a greatness 
that presented itself at first to my youthful imagina- 
tion under the form of riches and honors? 

Why, since I was first able to think, since the time 
when I was four years old, have I had longings, 
vague but intense, for glory, for grandeur, for 
splendor? How many characters have I been in turn, 
in my childish imagination! First, I was a dancer — 
a famous dancer — worshiped by all St. Petersburg. 
Every evening I would make them put a low-necked 
dress on me, and flowers in my hair, and I would 
dance, very gravely, in the drawing-room, while every 
one in the house looked on. Then I was the most 
famous prima donna in the world ; I sang and accom- 
panied myself on the harp, and I was carried in 
triumph, where or by whom I do not know. Then 
I electrified the people by my eloquence. The Em- 
peror of Russia married me; that he might be able 
to maintain himself on his throne. I came into per- 
sonal relations with my people; I explained my 
political views to them in my speeches, and both 
people and sovereign were moved to tears. 

And then I was in love. The man I loved proved 
false, and was afterward killed by some accident, 



1884.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 439 

generally a fall from his horse, just at the moment 
when I felt that my love for him was beginning to 
decrease. When my lovers died I consoled myself, 
but when they proved false to me I fell into despair 
and finally died of grief. 

In short, I have pictured every human feeling, 
every earthly pleasure to myself as superior to the 
reality, and if my dreams are to remain forever un- 
realized, it is better that I should die. 

Why has not my picture been awarded a medal ? 

The medal! It must be because some of the com- 
mittee suspected that I had received assistance. It 
has happened once or twice already that medals have 
been given to women who, as has afterward been dis- 
covered, had received assistance in their work; and 
when a medal has been once awarded the recipient 
has the right to exhibit on the following year, and 
may send the most worthless or insignificant picture 
if he chooses. 

Yet I am young and elegant, and have been praised 
by the papers! But these people are all alike. Bres- 
lau, for instance, said to my model that I would paint 
a great deal better if I went less into society. They 
think I go out every evening. How deceitful appear- 
ances are ! But to suspect that my picture is not all 
my own work is too serious a matter; thank Heaven, 
they have not publicly given utterance to their sus- 
picions, however! Robert-Fleury told me he was 
surprised that I had not received a medal, for that 
every time he spoke of me to his colleagues of the 
committee, they responded, "It is very good; it is a 
very interesting picture" 

"What do you suppose they mean when they say 
that?" he asked me. 

Then it is this suspicion. 

Friday, June 27. — Just as we were going to take 



440 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

a drive in the Bois, who should appear beside the 
carriage but the Architect! They arrived in Paris 
this morning, and he came to tell us that Jules is a 
little better; that he bore the journey well, but that, 
unhappily, he cannot leave the house. It would give 
him so much pleasure, his brother added, to tell me 
himself how greatly my picture had been admired by 
every one to whom he had shown the photograph in 
Algiers. 

"Then we will go to see him to-morrow," said 
mamma. 

"You could not give him a greater pleasure," he 
answered; "he says your picture — but no, he will 
tell it to you himself to-morrow; that will be better." 

Saturday, June 28. — We went, according to our 
promise, to the Rue Legendre. 

He rose to receive us, and took a few steps for- 
ward to meet us; he seemed mortified at the change 
that had taken place in his appearance. 

He is changed, indeed, very much changed ; but his 
disease is not in the stomach; I am no doctor, but 
his looks are enough to tell me that. 

In short, I find him so changed that all I could 
say was: "Well, so we have you here among us 
again." He was not at all reserved; on the contrary 
he was as cordial and friendly as possible. He spoke 
in the most flattering terms of my picture, telling me 
again and again not to trouble myself about the 
medal — that the success of the picture itself was 
sufficient. 

I made him laugh, telling him his illness would 
do him good; that he was beginning to grow too 
stout. The Architect seemed enchanted to see his 
invalid so gay and so amiable. Thus encouraged, 
I grew talkative. He complimented me on my gown, 
and even on the handle of my parasol. He made me 



1884.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 441 

sit at his feet on his reclining chair. How thin he 
has grown! And his eyes look larger than they were 
and very bright, and his hair looks uncared-for. 

But he looked very interesting, and since he has 
asked me to do so, I shall go to see him often. 

The Architect, who accompanied us downstairs, 
asked us to do so also. "It makes Jules so happy," he 
said; "it is so great a pleasure for him to see you; 
I assure you he thinks you have a great deal of 
talent." 

I write all these details about the reception I met 
with, because it made me very happy. 

But the feeling I have for him is a maternal one, 
very calm and very tender, and one of which I feel 
proud, as if it conferred a new dignity upon me. He 
will recover from this, I am sure. 

Monday, June 30. — I could scarcely keep from cut- 
ting my painting to pieces to-day. There is not an 
inch of it painted to please me. 

And one of the hands is still to be done! But 
when this hand is done there will be only so much 
the more to be done over again! Ah, misery! 

And it has cost me three months — three months ! 

I have been amusing myself painting a basket of 
strawberries such as were never before seen. I 
gathered them myself, picking up a few green ones 
also, for the sake of the color. 

And such leaves! In short, wonderful strawber- 
ries, gathered by an artist, with the delicate touch and 
conquettish air of one engaged in a unaccustomed 
occupation. 

And among them is a branch of red gooseberries. 

I walked with them through the streets of Sevres, 
and in the railway coach I held the basket in my lap, 
taking care to keep it slightly raised, so that the air 
might pass beneath, and prevent the heat of my dress 



442 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

from spoiling the strawberries, not one of which had 
a speck or spot on it. 

Rosalie laughed: "If any of the family were to 
see you now, mademoiselle!" she said. 

"Could this be possible?" I thought. 

"But then, it is for the sake of his painting, which 
deserves it, not for his face, which does not. There 
is nothing however, which his painting does not de- 
serve." 

"Then it is his painting that will eat the straw- 
berries ?" 

Tuesday, July 1. — Still at that odious Sevres! But 
I got home in good time, before five o'clock. My 
picture is almost finished. 

I am in the deepest dejection, however. Every- 
thing goes wrong with me. It would be necessary 
that some great event should take place in order to 
dispel this gloom. 

And I, who do not believe in a God, have fixed 
my hopes upon God. 

Formerly, after these fits of depression something 
would always occur to bring me back to an interest 
in life. 

My God, why hast thou given me the power to 
reason? It would make me so happy if I could but 
believe blindly. 

I believe and I do not believe. When I reason I 
no longer believe. But in moments of extreme joy 
or extreme wretchedness my first thought is always 
of that God who is so cruel to me. 

Wednesday, July 2. — We went to see Jules Bastien 
to-day — this time to his studio. I really think he is 
growing better. His mother was there. She is a 
woman of about sixty, and she looks to be forty-five 
or fifty; she is much better looking than her picture. 



i88 4 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 443 

Her hair is of a pretty blonde color, with here and 
there a silver thread or two. Her smile reveals good- 
ness of heart; and with her black and white gown 
she presents quite a pleasing appearance. She em- 
broiders with skill from designs of her own. 

The two upper front teeth of Bastien-Lepage are 
far apart like mine. 

Thursday. — I went to see Potain this morning at 
about seven o'clock. He made a superficial examina- 
tion and ordered me to Eaux-Bonnes. Afterward he 
will see, he says. But I have read the letter which 
he gave me for his colleague. In it he says that the 
upper part of the right lung is gone, and that I am 
the most unmanageable and imprudent patient he has 
ever had. 

Afterward, as it was not yet eight o'clock, I went 
to see the little doctor of the Rue de la Echiquier. 
He impressed me as being a very serious person; he 
appeared disagreeably surprised by my condition, and 
insisted strongly that I should consult some of the 
shining lights in the profession, Bouchard or 
Grancher, for instance. 

As I at first refused to do this, he offered to ac- 
company me, and I at last consented. 

Potain pretends that my lungs have been in worse 
condition than they are at present, but that an un- 
expected improvement took place in them, and that 
the old trouble has now returned, but will soon pass 
away again. 

And Potain is such an optimist that when he speaks 
thus I must be in a very bad way indeed. 

Little B , however, is not of this opinion; he 

says that my disease had indeed at one time assumed 
a more serious form than it now presents, but that 
the attack was an acute one which they thought would 
carry me off suddenly ; this did not happen, and that 



444 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884 

is the improvement that has taken place. The 
chronic trouble, however, has now become aggravated ; 
in short, he insists on my seeing Grancher. 

I will do so. 

So, then, I have consumption! 

That, and everything else. The prospect is not 
very encouraging. 

And nothing to console me in the least for all this. 

Friday, July 4. — The Sevres picture is here in my 
studio. I might call it "April." The name is of 
little consequence, however, if the picture itself were 
only good, which it is not. 

The green of the background is at once both bright 
and muddy, and the figure of the girl herself is not 
in the least like what I had intended it to be. 

I have hurried through with it as it was, without 
waiting to make it better, but there is nothing of the 
sentiment I had intended in the picture — nothing at 
all. In short, it is three months thrown away. 

Saturday, July 5. — I have a charming new gray 
linen gown; the waist is an artist's blouse, without 
any trimming, except the lace around the neck and 
sleeves. The hat is an ideal one; it is trimmed with 
a large and coquettish bow of antique lace. It was 
so becoming to me that I thought of going to the 
Rue Legendre; only I feared it might seem as if I 
went there too often. And yet why should I think 
so? I go there simply as a fellow-artist, an admirer, 
to help to make the time pass pleasantly for him 
while he is so ill. 

We went there, accordingly. His mother was de- 
lighted to see us ; she patted me on the shoulder, and 
said I had beautiful hair. The Architect is still down- 
cast, but the great painter is a little better. 

He ate his soup and his egg before us. His mother 



i88 4 .J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 445 

runs for whatever he wants, and waits on him her- 
self so that the servant may not have to come in. 
And he takes it all quite naturally and accepts our 
services with the greatest sangfroid, without mani- 
festing the least surprise. Some one in speaking of 
his appearance said that he ought to have his hair 
cut, and mamma mentioned that she used to cut her 
son's hair when he was a child, and her father's when 
he was sick. "Would you like me to cut yours?" 
she added; "I have a lucky hand." 

We all laughed, but he consented immediately; his 
mother ran to bring a peignoir and mamma set to 
work at once, and succeeded very creditably in her 
task. 

I wanted to have a hand in it, also, but the stupid 
fellow said I should be sure to commit some folly; 
I revenged myself by comparing him to Samson in 
the hands of Delilah. That will be my next picture! 

He condescended to smile at this. 

His brother, emboldened by his good-humor, pro- 
posed to cut his beard also, which he did slowly, and 
solemnly, his hands trembling slightly while he did it. 

This altered the expression of his face completely; 
it took away the sickly look it had before worn; his 
mother gave little cries of joy when she saw him. 
"Now I see my boy again," she said, "my dear little 
boy, my dear child I" 

She is an excellent woman — so amiable and un- 
affected; and she has the greatest admiration for her 
distinguished son. 

They are very worthy people. 

Monday, July 14. — I have commenced the treat- 
ment which is to cure me. And I am perfectly 
tranquil concerning the result. 

Even the prospects in regard to my painting seem 
better. 



446 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

What opportunities for study does the Boulevard 
des Batignolles, or even the Avenue Wagram, present 
to the artist! 

Have you ever watched the faces of the people who 
frequent those streets? 

With each one of the benches one may connect 
some tragedy or some romance. See the social out- 
cast, as he sits there, one arm leaning on the back of 
the seat, the other resting on his knee, looking around 
him with furtive glance; the woman with her child 
seated in her lap; the busy, bustling woman, sitting 
down to take a moment's rest ; the grocer's boy read- 
ing his little newspaper, as if he had not a care in 
the world; the workman fallen asleep in his seat; 
the philosophic or the hopeless man silently smoking. 
Perhaps I let my imagination run away with me, but 
look at all this any day at five or six o'clock in the 
evening, and' judge for yourselves. 

Yes, that is it ! 

I think I have found a subject for my picture. 

Yes, yes, yes! I may not be able to execute it, but 
I am quite satisfied as to the subject. I could dance 
for joy. 

How differently do we feel at different times! 

Sometimes life seems a void, and sometimes— I be- 
gin to take an interest in everything again — in all my 
surroundings. 

It is as if a sudden flood of life had come into my 
soul. 

And yet there is nothing to rejoice about. 

So much the worse; then I shall find something 
to cheer and please me even in the thought of my 
death. 

Nature intended me to be happy, but, 

Pourquoi dans ton ceuvre celeste 
Tant cT elements si peu d'accord ? 



1884.J JOURNAL OF MARIE BASRKIRTSEFF. 447 

Tuesday, July 15. — Every time I see people sitting 
on the benches in the public parks or streets an old 
idea of mine occurs to me — that here are to be found 
splendid opportunities for the study of art. It is 
always better to paint scenes in which the characters 
are in repose, than scenes of action. Let it not be 
thought that I am opposed to action in painting, but 
in scenes where violent action is represented there 
can be neither illusion nor pleasure for persons of 
refined tastes. One is painfully impressed (though 
one may not be conscious of the fact) by this arm 
which is raised to strike, but which does not strike, 
by these legs depicted in the act of running, and 
which remain always in the same position. There are 
violent situations, however, in which one can imagine 
the actors as for an instant motionless, and for the 
purposes of art an instant is sufficient. 

It is always preferable to seize the instant follow- 
ing a violent action rather than the one preceding it. 
The "J eanne d'Arc" of Bastien-Lepage has heard 
mysterious voices; she hurries forward, overturning 
her spinning-wheel in her haste, and stops suddenly 
to lean against a tree. But in scenes where the arm 
is raised to strike, in which action is portrayed, the 
artistic enjoyment is never complete. 

Take the "Distribution of Flags by the Emperor 
at Versailles." 

Every one is rushing forward with arms raised; 
and yet the action does not shock the artistic sense, 
because the figures are depicted during a moment of 
expectation, and we are ourselves moved and carried 
away by the emotion of these men ; we share in their 
impatience. The spirit and force of the painting are 
prodigious, precisely because it is possible to imagine 
an instant during which the action is arrested — an 
instant during which we can tranquilly contemplate 
this scene, as if it were a real scene and not a painting. 



448 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

But action, whether in sculpture or in painting, is 
never capable of the same sublimity of treatment as 
repose. 

Compare the pictures of Millet with the most pow- 
erfully treated scenes of action you are acquainted 
with. 

See the "Moses" of Michaelangelo ; he is motion- 
less, but he is alive. His "Penseroso" neither moves 
nor speaks, but this is because he wills it be it so. 
He is a living man who is absorbed in his own re- 
flections. 

The "Pas-meche" of Bastien-Lepage looks at you 
and you listen as if he were going to speak, because 
he lives. In Lepage's "Foins" the man lying on hi& 
back, his face covered with his hat, sleeps; but he 
is alive! The woman sitting down is in a revery, 
and is motionless, but we feel that she is living. 

No scene can satisfy the artistic sense completely 
but one in which the characters are in repose. This 
gives us time to grasp its beauties, to possess our- 
selves of its meaning, to endow it in our imagination 
with life. 

Ignorant or stupid people think scenes of repose 
more easy to paint than scenes of action. 

When I die my death will be caused by indignation 
at the stupidity of human nature, which, as Flaubert 
says, has no limit. 

During the past thirty years Russia has produced 
admirable works in literature. 

In reading Count Tolstoi's "Peace and War," I 
was so impressed by this fact as to exclaim involun- 
tarily, "Why, this is equal to Zola!" 

And this is true. There is an article in the Revue 
des Deux Mondes to-day devoted to our Tolstoi, and 
my heart, as a Russian, leaped for joy when I read 
it. It is by M. de Vogue, who was Secretary of the 
French Embassy in Russia. He has made a study 



I884-] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 449 

of our literature and manners, and has already pub- 
lished several remarkably just and profound articles 
on this great and wonderful country of mine. 

And I, wretch that I am — live in France; I prefer 
to be a stranger in a strange land to living in my 
own country ! 

Since I love my country — the beautiful, the great, 
the glorious Russia — I ought to go there to live. 

But I, too, labor for the glory of my country — 
though I may never be a genius like Tolstoi ! 

But if it were not for my painting, I would go 
there to live; yes, I would go! But my art absorbs 
all my faculties ; everything else is only an interlude, 
an amusement. 

Monday, July 21. — I walked for more than four 
hours to-day in search of a background for my pic- 
ture; it is to be a street, but I have not yet fixed on 
the particular spot. 

It is evident that a public seat on a boulevard on the 
outskirts of the city is very different from a seat in 
the Champs-Elysees, where porters, grooms, nurses, 
and idlers sit. 

Here there is no field for the artist; here there is 
no soul, no romance. With the exception of some 
particular case these people are nothing more than 
human machines. 

But the outcast who sits on the edge of yonder 
bench, how he appeals to the imagination! That is 
the real man — a man such as Shakespeare might have 
portrayed. 

Now that I have discovered this treasure I am 
possessed by an unreasoning dread lest it should 
escape from me before I can fix it on canvas. What 
if the weather should not prove propitious, or if it 
should be beyond my powers of execution? 

Well, if I have no genius, then Heaven has chosen 



450 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884, 

to mock me; for it inflicts upon me all the tortures 
that a genius could suffer — Alas! 

Wednesday, July 23. — My picture is sketched in, 
— my models have been found. I have been running 
about since five o'clock this morning — to Villette and 
to Batignolles; Rosalie spoke to the various people 
I pointed out to her. 

The whole affair is neither very easy nor very 
pleasant. 

Friday, August 1. — When I treat you to moving 
phrases you must not allow yourselves to be too much 
affected by them. . . . 

Shall I ever know what it is to love? 

For my own part I think love — impossible — to one 
who looks at human nature through a microscope, as 
I do. They who see only what they wish to see in 
those around them are very fortunate. 

Shall I tell you something? Well, I am neither 
an artist, nor a sculptor, nor a musician; neither 
woman, girl, nor friend. My only purpose in life is 
to observe, to reflect, and to analyze. 

A glance, a face I see by chance, a sound, a 
pleasure, a pain, is at once weighed, examined, veri- 
fied, classified, noted. And not until this is accom- 
plished is my mind at rest. 

Saturday, August 2. — Tuesday, Wednesday, Thurs- 
day, Friday, Saturday — five days, and my picture is 
finished. Claire and I commenced on the same day, 
with the same subject, on a canvas 3 ft. 4 x 3 ft. 3 — 
a picture of some size, as you see — La Bievre, im- 
mortalized in his verse by Victor Hugo ; in the back- 
ground is a farmhouse; in the foreground a young 
girl sits by the river-side talking to a youth who 
stands on the opposite bank. 



1884.3 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 451 

And is the picture a good one? There is some- 
thing too hackneyed in the sentiment of the composi- 
tion for this to be the case, and then I wished to 
finish it quickly. It is amusing to hear them criticise 
it; one says, "What a pretty scene!" Another says 
the picture has no merit whatever, and yet another, 
"It is very good indeed; a really pretty painting!" 
Claire has not yet finished hers. 

Good heavens! how many things there are that 
shock me! Almost all true artists are like me in 
this respect. 

I wonder at people who can eat great pieces of 
half- raw fat mutton. 

I wonder at those fortunate people who can swal- 
low raspberries whole, without minding the little 
insects that are almost always to be found in them. 

As for me, I must first examine them closely, so 
that the pleasure of eating them does not pay me 
for the trouble. 

I wonder at people who can eat all sorts of hashes 
and stews, without knowing what they are composed 
of. 

I wonder at, or rather I envy, simple, healthy, 
common-place natures, in short. 

Thursday, August 7. — We have sent a little ice-box 
to the Rue Legendre; he wished to have one that 
might stand near his bed. 

I only hope he may not think we are paying him 
all these attentions in order to get one of his pictures 
for a mere song! 

My picture is sketched in colors. But I do not 
feel very strong. I find it necessary to lie down and 
rest very frequently, and when I get up again I am 
so dizzy that for some moments I can scarcely see. 
At last, at about five o'clock I was obliged to leave 



452 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

my work, and go for a turn in the deserted walks 
of the Bois. 

Monday, August 11. — I left the house at five this 
morning to make a sketch for my picture, but there 
were so many people in the streets already that I was 
compelled to return home furious. No less than 
twenty persons had gathered around the carriage, al- 
though it remained closed. 

I drove through the streets again in the afternoon, 
but succeeded no better. 

I went to the Bois. 

Tuesday, August 12. — In a word, my friends, all 
this means that I am ill. I still struggle against the 
feeling, and try to drag myself about, but I thought 
this morning that I should at last have to succumb — 
that is to say, lie down and give up work. But sud- 
denly I felt a little stronger, and I went out again 
in search of some hints for my picture. My weak- 
ness, and the preoccupation of my thoughts keep me 
apart from the real world, which, however, I have 
never seen so clearly as I do now. All its baseness, 
all its meanness, stand out before my mind with sad- 
dening distinctness. 

Foreigner though I be — not to speak of my youth 
and my ignorance — I find passages to criticise in the 
writings of the best authors and poets. As for the 
newspapers, I cannot read half a dozen lines in one 
of them without throwing it aside in disgust, not only 
because of the style, which is that of a scullion, but 
because of the sentiments expressed. There is no 
honesty in them. Every article is written either to 
serve a purpose, or is paid for. 

There is neither good faith nor sincerity to be found 
anywhere. 

And what is to be said of men, who call themselves 



1884.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 453 

men of honor, who will deliberately falsify the truth 
through party spirit ? 

It is disgusting. 

We came home to dine after leaving Bastien, who 
is still in bed, though his eyes are bright and he seems 
to be free from pain. He has gray eyes, the exquisite 
charm of which vulgar souls cannot be expected to 
appreciate. Do you understand what I mean by this ? 
Eyes that have looked into the eyes of Jeanne d'Arc. 

We spoke of the picture, and he complained of not 
being sufficiently appreciated. I told him he was 
appreciated by those who had souls to understand 
him, and that "J eanne d'Arc" was a work which 
people admired more than they dared to say to his 
face. 

Saturday, August 16. — This is the first day I have 
been really able to work in the fiacre, and I came 
home with such a pain in my back that I was obliged 
to have it bathed and rubbed. 

But how well I feel now! The Architect put my 
painting in place this morning. His brother is better. 
He went for an airing to the Bois to-day. They 
carried him downstairs in an easy-chair. Felix told 
'me this when he came for some milk this afternoon. 

For a week past Bastien has been drinking goat's 
milk — the milk of our goat. Imagine the joy of our 
people. But this is not all. He condescends to be 
so friendly with us that he sends for it himself when- 
ever he has a fancy for it. This is delightful. 

He will soon be lost to us then, since he is grow- 
ing better. Yes, our good times are coming to an 
end. One cannot go visit a man who is well enough 
to go out. 

But I must not exaggerate things. He went to the 
Bois, but he was carried there in an easy-chair, and 



454 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

he went back to bed again on his return home. That 
does not mean that he is well enough to go out. 

Tuesday, August 19. — I was so exhausted that I 
had scarcely strength enough to put on a linen gown 
and go to see Bastien. His mother received us with 
reproaches. Three days ! she said, three days without 
coming j to see him! It was dreadful! And when 
we were in his room Emile cried out : "All is ended, 
then? We are friends no longer ?" "So, then, you 
have deserted me?" said he himself. Ah, I ought 
not to have stayed away so long. 

My vanity tempts me to repeat here all his friendly 
reproaches, and his assurances that never, never, 
never could we come too often. 

Thursday, August 21. — I do nothing but lounge 
about all day, except for a couple of hours in the 
morning — from five to seven — when I work out-of- 
doors in a carriage. 

I have had a photograph taken of the scene I have 
chosen for my picture, so as to be able to copy with 
exactness the lines of the sidewalk. 

This was done at seven this morning; the Architect 
was there at six. Afterward we all drove home, I, 
Rosalie, the Architect, Coco, and the photograph. 

Not that the presence of the brother was at all 
necessary, but it was pleasant to have him with us. 
I always like to have a guard of honor around me. 

All is over ! He is doomed. 

Friday, August 22. — Baude, who spent the evening 
here with the Architect, told it to mamma. 

Baude is his most intimate friend — the one to whom 
he wrote the letter from Algiers that I read. 

All is over, then. 

Can it be possible? 



1884.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 455 

I cannot yet realize what will be the effect of this 
crushing news upon me. 

This is a new sensation — to see a man who is 
under sentence of death. 

Tuesday, August 26. — All the confused thoughts 
that have filled my brain and distracted my mind have 
now settled immovably around this new misfortune. 

It is a new experience — to see a man, a great 
painter — to see him, in short 

Condemned to die! 

This is something not to be lightly spoken of. 

And every day, until the day arrives, I shall be 
thinking, "He is dying!" 

It is horrible! 

I have summoned all my courage, and now I stand, 
with head erect, ready to receive the blow. 

Has it not been thus with me all my life? 

When the blow comes I shall receive it without 
flinching. 

At times I refuse to believe it, I rebel against it; 
I give way to lamentations, when I know that all is 
ended. 

I cannot utter two sentences connectedly. 

But do not imagine that I am overwhelmed; I am 
only profoundly engrossed by the thought of how it 
will be with me — afterward. 

Saturday, August 30. — It seems that matters are 
growing worse. I am unable to do anything. I have 
done nothing since the Sevres picture was finished — 
nothing, that is to say, except two miserable panels. 

I sleep for hours at a time in the broad daylight. 
I have finished the sketch for my picture, but it is 
laughable ! 

The canvas is there; everything is ready, I alone 
am wanting. 



456 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

If I were to write here all I feel ! — the terrible fears 
that assail me ! 

September is here now, winter is not far distant. 

The slightest cold might confine me to bed for a 
couple of months, and then, the convalescence 

And my picture! So that I should have sacrificed 
everything without 

Now is the moment to believe in God and to pray 
to Him. 

Yes, the fear of falling ill is what paralyzes me; 
in the state in which I am, a heavy cold would put 
an end to me in six weeks. 

And that is how I shall die at last. 

For I am resolved to work at my picture in any 
case — and, as the weather will be cold — and if I do 
not take cold working, I shall take cold walking; 
how many people there are who do not paint; and 
who die all the same 

Here it is at last, then, the end of all my miseries! 
So many aspirations, so many hopes, so many plans 
— to die at twenty- four, on the threshold of every- 
thing. 

I knew that this would be so. Since God could 
not grant me all that was necessary to my life, with- 
out ceasing to be just, He will let me die. There 
are so many years in a lifetime, so many — and I have 
lived so few — and accomplished nothing! 

Wednesday, September 3. — I am making the design 
for the Figaro, but I am obliged to leave off work 
from time to time, to rest for an hour or so. I have 
a constant fever. I can obtain no relief. I have 
never before been so ill as I am now, but I say 
nothing of it to any one; I go out, I paint. What 
need of further words? I am sick, let that suffice. 
Will talking about it do any good? But going out 
is another thing, you will say. 



i88 4 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 457 

It is a malady that permits of doing that in the 
intervals of comparative ease. 

Thursday, September 11. — On Tuesday I began a 
study in the nude, of a child. It might make a very 
good picture if well treated. 

The Architect was here yesterday; his brother de- 
sires to know why we have neglected him for so 
many days. So we went to the Bois in the afternoon, 
hoping to see him, but we arrived late ; he was taking 
his usual turn through the walks ; we waited for him, 
and you should have seen the surprise of all three 
to find us there. He grasped both my hands in his, 
and when we were going home he took a seat in 
our carriage, while my aunt returned with his mother. 
It is, besides, a good habit to get into. 

Saturday, September 13. — We are friends; he likes 
me ; he esteems me ; he finds me interesting. He said 
yesterday that I was wrong to torment myself as I 
do; that I should consider myself very fortunate. 
There is not another woman, he says, who has ac- 
complished as much as I have done in as short a time. 

"You have a name," he added; "every one knows 
who Mile. Bashkirtseff is. There is no doubt about 
your success. But as for you, you would like to send 
a picture every six months to the Salon; you are im- 
patient to reach the goal. But that is quite natural, 
when one is ambitious ; I have passed through all that 
myself." 

And to-day he said: "They see me driving with 
you; it is fortunate that I am sick, or they might 
accuse me of painting your picture." 

"They have done that already," responded the 
Architect. 

"Not in the papers!" 

"Oh, no." 



458 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

Wednesday, September 17. — Few days pass in 
which I am not tormented by the recollection of my 
father. I ought to have gone to him and nursed him 
during his last illness. He made no complaint, for 
his nature was like mine, but my neglect must have 
made him suffer cruelly. Why did I not go? 

It is since Bastien-Lepage has come back — since we 
have visited him so often and shown him so many 
little attentions, given him so many marks of our 
affection — that I feel this especially. 

In mamma's case it was different, they had lived 
apart for so many years — until within five of his 
death — but, I his daughter! 

It is just, then, that God should punish me. But 
if we go to the root of the matter, we owe our parents 
no duty, if they have not protected us and cared for 
us from our entrance into the world. 

But that does not prevent — but I have no time to 
analyze the question. — Bastien-Lepage causes me to 
feel remorse. This is a chastisement from God. But 
if I do not believe in God ? I scarcely know whether 
I do or not, but even if I did not, I still have my 
conscience, and my conscience reproaches me for my 
neglect. 

And one cannot say absolutely, "I do not believe 
in God." That depends on what we understand by 
the word God. If the God we desire to believe in, 
the God who loves us, existed, the world would not 
be what it is. 

Though there be no God to hear my evening prayer, 
yet I pray to Him every night in despite of my 
reason. 

" Si le ciel est desert, nous n'offensons personne, 
Si quelqu'un nous entend, qu'il nous prenne en piti6." 

Yet how believe ? 

Bastien-Lepage continues very ill; we found him 



1884.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 459 

in the Bois, writhing with pain; none of the doctors 
have been able to relieve him; it would be well to 
bring Charcot to see him some day as if by chance. 
When we were alone Bastien said it was abominable 
to have neglected him for two days. 



Thursday, September 18. — I have just seen Julian! 
I have missed him indeed, but it was so long since 
we had seen each other that we had but little to say. 
He thought I had a successful and contented look. 
There is nothing, after all, but art; nothing else is 
worth a thought. 

The whole family are with Bastien-Lepage, his 
sisters as well as his mother ; they are to remain with 
him until the end; they seem to be good women, 
though garrulous. 

That tyrant of a Bastien-Lepage will insist upon 
my taking care of myself: he wants me to be rid of 
my cold in a month; he buttons my jacket for me, 
and is always careful to see that I am warmly clad. 

Once when they were all sitting on the left side 
of his bed, as usual, and I had seated myself on the 
right, he turned his back to the others, settled himself 
comfortably, and began to chat with me softly about 
art. 

Yes, he certainly has a feeling of friendship for 
me — of selfish friendship, even. When I said to him 
that I was going to resume work again to-morrow, 
he answered : 

"Oh, not yet, you must not desert me!" 

Friday, September 19. — He continues to grow 
worse ; we scarcely know what to do — whether to re- 
main in the room while he is groaning with pain, or 
to go out. 

To leave the room would look as if we thought 



460 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

him very ill; to remain would seem as if we wished 
to be spectators of his sufferings ! 

It seems shocking to speak in this way — as if I 
were wanting in feeling. It seems as if one might 
find words more — that is to say, less — Poor fellow ! 

Wednesday, October 1. — Nothing but sorrow and 
annoyance ! 

But why write all this down? 

My aunt left for Russia on Monday; she will 
arrive there at one in the morning. 

Bastien-Lepage goes from bad to worse. 

I am unable to work. 

My picture will not be finished. 

Here are misfortunes enough! 

He is dying, and he suffers intensely. When I am 
with him I feel as if he were no longer on this earth; 
he already soars above us; there are days when I 
feel as if I, too, soared above this earth. I see the 
people around me; they speak to me, I answer them, 
but I am no longer of them. I feel a passive in- 
difference to everything — a sensation somewhat like 
that produced by opium. 

At last he is dying; I still go to see him, but only 
from habit; it is only his shadow that is there: I 
myself am hardly more than a shadow. 

He is scarcely conscious of my presence. I am 
of no use to him; his eyes do not brighten when he 
sees me ; he likes me to be there, that is all. 

Yes, he is dying, and the thought does not move 
me; I am indifferent to it; something is fading out 
of sight — that is all. 

And then everything will be ended. 

Everything will be ended. 

I shall die with the dying year. 

Thursday, October 9. — It is as you see — I do 



i88 4 .] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 461 

nothing. I am never without fever; my physicians 
are a pair of imbeciles. I have sent for Potain and 
put myself into his hands again. He cured me once 
before. He is kind, attentive, and conscientious. 
After all, it seems that my emaciation, and all the 
rest of it, do not come from the lungs, but from 
some malady I contracted without knowing when, 
and to which I paid no attention, thinking it would 
go away of itself ; as for my lungs, they are no worse 
than before. 

But it is not necessary for me to trouble you with 
my ailments; what is certain, however, is that I can 
do nothing. 

Nothing ! 

Yesterday I went to dress myself to go to the Bois, 
and twice I was on the point of giving up, I was so 
overcome with weakness. 

I succeeded at last, however. 

M. Bastien-Lepage has been at Damvillers since 
Monday last, for the vintage, and, although there are 
women enough about him, he was glad to see us. 

Sunday, October 12. — I have not been able to go 
out for the past few days. I am very ill, although 
I am not confined to bed. 

Potain and his assistant come to see me on al- 
ternate days. 

Ah, my God! and my picture, my picture, my 
picture ! 

Julian has come to see me. They have told him, 
then, that I was ill. 

Alas! how could it be concealed? And how shall 
I be able to go see Bastien-Lepage? 

Thursday, October 16. — I have a constant fever 
that is sapping my strength. I spend the whole day 



462 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

in the drawing-room, going from the easy-chair to 
the sofa and back again. 

Dina reads novels to me. Potain came yesterday, 
and is to come again to-morrow. This man is no 
longer in need of money, and if he comes to see me 
so often, it must be because he takes some little in- 
terest in me. 

I cannot leave the house at all, but poor Bastien- 
Lepage is still able to go out, so he had himself 
brought here and installed in an easy-chair, his feet 
supported by cushions. I was by his side, in another 
easy-chair, and so we remained until six o'clock. 

I was dressed in a white plush morning-gown, 
trimmed with white lace, but of a different shade; 
Bastien-Lepage's eyes dilated with pleasure as they 
rested on me. 

"Ah, if I could only paint !" he said. 

And I ! 

There is an end to this year's picture! 

Saturday, October 18. — Basti en-Lepage comes al- 
most every day. His mother has returned, and all 
three came to-day. 

Potain came yesterday: I am no better. 

Sunday, October 19. — Tony and Julian are to dine 
with us to-night. 

Monday, October 20. — Although the weather is 
magnificent, Bastien-Lepage comes here instead of 
going to the Bois. He can scarcely walk at all now; 
his brother supports him under each arm; he almost 
carries him. 

By the time he is seated in his easy-chair the poor 
fellow is exhausted. Woe is me! And how many 
porters there are who do not know what it is to be 
ill! Emile is an admirable brother. He it is who 



1884.] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 463 

carries Jules on his shoulders up and down their three 
flights of stairs. Dina is equally devoted to me. For 
the last two days my bed has been in the drawing- 
room, but as this is very large, and divided by 
screens, poufs, and the piano, it is not noticed. I 
find it too difficult to go upstairs. 



The journal stops here — Marie Bashkirtseff died 
eleven days afterward, on the 31st of October, 1884. 

A VISIT TO MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.* 

BY FRANQOIS COPPEE. 

Last winter I went to pay my respects to a Rus- 
sian lady of my acquaintance who was passing through 
Paris, and who was stopping with Madame Bash- 
kirtseff at her hotel in the Rue Ampere. 

I found there a very sympathetic company of 
middle-aged ladies and young girls, all speaking 
French perfectly, with that slight accent which gives 
to our language, when spoken by Russians, an in- 
describable softness. 

In this charming circle, with its pleasant surround- 
ings, I received a cordial welcome. But scarcely was 
I seated near the "samovar," a cup of tea in my 
hand, when my attention was arrested by a large 
portrait of one of the young ladies present — a perfect 
likeness, freely and boldly treated, with all the fougue 
of a master's brush. "It is my daughter, Marie/' said 
Madame Bashkirtseff to me, "who painted this 
portrait of her cousin." 

♦Printed in the catalogue of Marie Bashkirtseff's paintings exhi- 
bited in Paris in 1885, shortly after her death. 



464 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

I began by saying something complimentary. I 
could not go on. Another canvas, and another, and 
still another, attracted me, revealing to me an excep- 
tional artist. I was charmed by one picture after 
the other. The drawing-room walls were covered 
with them, and at each one of my exclamations of 
delighted surprise, Madame Bashkirtseff repeated to 
me, with a tone in her voice of tenderness, rather 
than of pride, "It is by my daughter Marie" — or, "It 
is my daughter's." 

At this moment Mile. Bashkirtseff appeared. I saw 
her but once. I saw her only for an hour. I shall 
never forget her. Twenty-three years old, but she 
appeared much younger. Rather short, but with a 
perfect figure, an oval face exquisitely modeled, 
golden hair, dark eyes kindling with intelligence — 
eyes consumed by the desire to see and to know 
everything — a firm mouth, tender and thoughtful, 
nostrils quivering like those of a wild horse of the 
Ukraine. 

At the first glance Mile. Bashkirtseff gave me the 
rare impression of being possessed of strength in 
gentleness, dignity in grace. Everything in this 
adorable young girl betrayed a superior mind. Be- 
neath her womanly charms, she had a truly mascu- 
line will of iron, and one was reminded of the gift 
of Ulysses to the young Achilles — a sword hidden 
within the garments of a woman. 

She replied to my congratulations in a frank and 
well-modulated voice — without false modesty ac- 
knowledging her high ambitions, and — poor child! 
already with the finger of death upon her — her im- 
patience for fame. 

In order to see her other works we all went up- 
stairs to her studio. There was this extraordinary 
young girl entirely "in her element." 

The large hall was divided into two rooms. The 



I884-] JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 465 

studio proper, where the light streamed through the 
large sash, and a darker corner heaped up with papers 
and books. In the one she worked, in the other she 
read. 

By instinct I went straight to the chef-d'oeuvre — 
to that "Meeting" which at the last Salon had en- 
grossed so much attention. A group of little Parisian 
street boys, talking seriously together, undoubtedly 
planning some mischief, before a wooden fence at the 
corner of a street. It is a chef-d'oeuvre I maintain. 
The faces and the attitudes of the children are strik- 
ingly real. The glimpse of meager landscape ex- 
presses the sadness of the poorer neighborhoods. 

At the Exhibition, before this charming picture, the 
public had with a unanimous voice bestowed the 
medal on Mile. Bashkirtseff, who had been already 
"mentioned" the year before. Why was this verdict 
not confirmed by the jury? Because the artist was a 
foreigner? Who knows? Perhaps because of her 
wealth? The injustice made her suffer, and she en- 
deavored — the noble child ! — to avenge herself by re- 
doubling her efforts. 

In one hour I saw there twenty canvases com- 
menced; a hundred designs — drawings, painted 
studies, the cast of a statue, portraits which sug- 
gested to me the name of Frans Hals, scenes made 
from life in the open streets ; notably one large sketch 
of a landscape — the October mist on the shore, the 
trees half stripped, big yellow leaves strewing the 
ground. In a word, works in which is incessantly 
sought, or more often asserts itself, the sentiment of 
the sincerest and most original art, and of the most 
personal talent. 

Notwithstanding this, a lively curiosity impelled me 
to the dark corner of the studio, where I saw numer- 
ous volumes on shelves, and scattered over a work- 
table. I went closer and looked at the titles. They 



466 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. [1884. 

were the great works of the greatest intellects. They 
were all there in their own languages — French, 
Italian, English, and German; Latin also, and even 
Greek, and they were not "library books, ,, either, as 
the Philistines call them, "show books," but well- 
thumbed volumes, read, re-read, and pored over. A 
copy of Plato, open at a sublime passage, was on the 
desk. 

Before my visible astonishment Mile. Bashkirtseff 
lowered her eyes, as if confused at the fear that I 
might think her a "blue stocking/' while her mother 
proudly kept on telling me of her daughter's en- 
cyclopedic learning, and pointed out to me manu- 
scripts black with notes, and the open piano at which 
her beautiful hands interpreted all kinds of music. 

Evidently annoyed by the expression of maternal 
pride, the young girl laughingly interrupted the con- 
versation. It was time for me to leave, and more- 
over for a moment I experienced a vague apprehen- 
sion, a sort of alarm — I can scarcely call it a presenti- 
ment. 

Before that pale and ardent young girl I thought 
of some extraordinary hot-house plant, beautiful and 
fragrant beyond words, and in my heart of hearts a 
sweet voice murmured, "It is too much!" 

Alas ! it was indeed too much. A few months after 
my one visit to the Rue Ampere I received the 
sinister notice bordered with black, informing me that 
Mile. Bashkirtseff was no more. She had died at 
twenty-three years of age, having taken a cold while 
making a sketch in the open air. Once again I 
visited the now desolate house. The stricken mother, 
a prey to devouring and arid grief, unable to shed 
tears, showed me, for the second time, in their old 
places, the pictures and the books. She spoke to me 
for a long time of her poor dead child, revealing the 
tenderness of her heart, which her intellect had not 



1884-1 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 467 

extinguished. She led me, convulsed by sobs, even to 
the bed-chaniber, before the little iron bedstead, the 
bed of a soldier, upon which the heroic child had 
fallen asleep forever. . . . 

But why try to influence the public? In the pres- 
ence of the works of Marie Bashkirtseff, before that 
harvest of hopes wilted by the breath of death, every 
one would surely experience, with an emotion deep 
as my own, the same profound melancholy as would 
be inspired by edifices crumbling before their com- 
pletion, or new ruins scarcely risen from the ground, 
which flowers and ivy have not yet covered. . . . 



THE END. 



